143. The Antique Book

Same old story floats through time,

Repetitively drawn-out in your arms,

Tired. Tired. Tired.

Over and over further deepened harms.

Alone again in moment dire.

Embrace the pages refined,

Which tell of what the touch can bring,

Tired. Tired. Tired.

Of the romanced deaths of Spring.

Alone again in moment dire.

Dwelling. Moving…but only tired,

Is this story of love made dire,

From seasons’ words….fading: tired….

Of the rusted pages.

K. Aldaya, 5/28/05

Picture:  Artist Unknown; http://api.ning.com/files/E4wkf04BIyka09WytqTDdQRa27rafSq-NMCrMDgpCxXURC55GGYtrU53Z3aOpWKKJmUnlRjBeQSfNU7GQ95lzb7GTUkEEBlH/GothicBook.jpg?width=413&height=341