Amongst the dusty shelves lined
with countless cobweb encrusted
hardback covers,
sits a pristine clean piece
of artistry.
Shining amongst
the rot and decay,
amidst this place
of faded poetry,
and manuscripts
withing away.
This book beams.
It's colours keeping
the darkness at bay,
keeping the shadows away.
It speaks of love
told in dreams.
The love for her
that stands
beside the
reflective streams,
the strands of hair
so delicately blowing,
her cheeks glowing,
in the moons
shimmering
light beams.
Written in smitten
shaken handwriting,
scratched, smothering
the parchment
in words he can't say.
His quill unable
to be kept still,
whilst there is ink
in the pot ready to spill.
The words held inside
for too many a day.
The final set of pages
stay empty.
For when he lays
and closes eyes
to dream of faraway fantasy,
the words begin to paint themselves.
Spinning yarns over the crisp pages.
described in poetic outpourings,
the longing looks,
that never drop at all.
In dreamily sprawled wording,
describing waterfalls, flower beds,
sweet cuddles, heads resting
on chests that rise and fall,
every heartbeat she hears
written in breathless words,
every moment scrawled
over pages to reminisce.
like the floating memories
of that shared first kiss.
Thanks for reading
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