We lay like bookends,
pillows stacked between
spines turned sideways,
titles worn from the covers.
Just piles on the shelf,
dewey-decimal disarray.
Dog-eared pages bent
to mark the place
where once sprawled
love and dreams,
willing crucifixions,
sacrificial lambs,
and mystery.
Gold leaf peeled,
illegible and irrelevant
in a language
now extinct.
Just another reliquary
for forgotten

M. Zane McClellan

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