a b a b b c b c c d c d e e
The leather bound books sit upon the shelf,
Collecting dreams that drifted from my sleep,
And turning pages inked all by themselves,
Have overlooked the blots of last night's weep.
The haunted midnight chime does sweetly reap
The aging parchment of the library.
As quill and ink do pair and aptly keep,
Mortality is likely to bury.
Even such timeless tales of folk faerie
Are not immune to rot, as things of dreams
Will drown at dawn in aging's airy sea,
For death must understand what may not seem.
Though binding blood might break the fractured spine,
At least these dreams they must collect are mine.