Reflections of an Unread Book

slow evening
my lungs, stained
with settled dust 

a scarce sun
tiptoes in
barely tans me 

histories age 
countries cry 
inside my 

unread soul 
felt rarely
by wandering fingers 

my memories
corrupted 
by queer scribbles 

above, the ceiling wrinkles
below, the wood dampens 
around, time scrambles 

I inch onward, let 
the wind fling me open
and wait to be romanced 

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