Too many piles of books

where does the value of my time deposit?

The books stand like monuments,
To the patience that I have not;
Stacked like decades, pale and solid,
They entreat the eye that sees within
To see without the doubt of shadows;

Each one, a journey earned and won,
Each one, a self reflection
Each one a guide who speaks within me
Each one, a bold stab at connection.

And I, while all the moments fly,
Sigh gently at the epilogue;
Can one reflecting catalog
The passing of their mysteries?

The friends of pulp and pigment,
From the minds of mentors past.

Reviews

[Sami Khalil]

A nice poem. An enjoyable read...:)

[David Aiello]

Thank you! I find my poems kinda fall into two groups, the "try" and the "do", and this one is one of the "try"'s... I kinda had to look around and make it happen. others hit me between the eyes, I am very happy that you found this one enjoyable!
^_______^