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.