Amateur Poetry

The Library by Carmin Fisk

The shelves still imbued with their original stain

Host my stories:

Ones of fantastical origin,

Ones of betrayal,

Of laughter,

Of wonder,

Of heartbreak,

Love.

Some have been stolen,

-- Some are indispensable--

While others are fading into dust.

Whispers on the wind

Annotate, and Consolidate

Their truths.

But in the corner of the library,

On top of a circular cofffee table rests

My story,

With a palimpsest

--a hand--

Drifting over the pages.

Like a chasm opening

Revealing the caves bowels,

Til the rocks

Tumble

Back

In.

I wait for a premonition, that will not come.

So again, in darkness

Color cascades, enveloping me

With what could be.