Old Bookshop

My mind is like a bookshop

filled with stacks of old books.

All piled up, filling every space;

each and every tiny nook.

.

Some are stacked sturdy,

strong and secure and sound.

Others are ready to topple

and plummet to the ground.

.

It's completely full to bursting,

crammed with every last thought

each bound with their own cover –

some beautiful, some mistakenly caught.

.

Some sections are left alone,

building up mildew and dust.

The ones no one wants to touch,

the ones I do not trust.

.

Others are displayed prettily,

waiting for the perfect buyer

to come along, be struck with awe,

and snatch what they admire.

.

There are the ones that are often used

with little regard or respect.

A constant source of quick emotion

to fulfil what they expect.

.

And then there're some that I can't decide

whether I want them taken or not.

Laced with glistening vulnerability

and sealed with an enticing knot.

.

But there they all lay forever,

in perfect unordered order.

Impossible if read in fragments

but decipherable to the author.

.

All it takes is the sound of a bell,

upon a soul entering the door,

to send the ancient dust flying

and to rekindle the allure.