time is lost in these shelves, waiting for hand, breath, to find it. rows are blooming into eternity like legend or death. let the memories overtake you; they are etched in gold and ceramic like letters in tree bark. like lion’s mane or letters from prison. they were lovers once. they were writing their stories the way others would some day. they were writing the stories the way they wanted others to some day. sadly, wishes weep like willows. the world you find so big some day gets placed into wrinkled pages or waste baskets just like dreams and gods. the world you find so big some day shrinks into characters and quotations like a film you’re slowly forgetting; as quickly as a breeze, it all disappears. silently, silently it stands like time during the year’s first snow. the muttering only arises when the past is found; untethered, unbound, the closure comes to those with open minds. lightly floating like a rush of blood to the head but free and clear like the highway in middle america. there was a time this was truth. there was a time this was truer than it is now. words flowed freely like raging rivers and the only rafts were these pages. they still buoy dreams, but are harder to find. blow. dust is everyday camouflage.