the book of times
observe
how quiet the dust is
settling light
a prodigal thought demands
the vellum of the fatted calf
to bind yon book of parables
leaves rolling upon stoney ground
or waiting upon these ebony shelves
bending reads in the winnowing of time
a long sigh at the end of a finger
pointing at the inner sanctums
that books hold dear
so quietly is a quietly finger
running down the faded golden spine
of a book of all our times
locked by a grasped clasp
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