They're like been there
for years,
those grains of dust
shimmering gold
when light
beams
through the slits
bookshelves and corners
untouched,
if not for those busy spiders
crossing their threads,
snuggle closed the walls
and ceilings
that seemed to whisper
secrets of old
Manuscripts and letters
laden with laces
and ribbons
slid in between books,
unread
if not for the cold air
that surrounds them,
holds the ears of silence
while the arms of time
hanging loose,
withdrawing their faith to oblivion
Caring less of a table
unmarred,
anonymity
spares
it with more years
of being empty
in the study room.
