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.