In the Abandoned bookshelf

A part of me is lost in words.

Maybe it isn't lost at all, just undiscovered.

But before I become the jaded afterglow of an aura that was, I’d like to read me. In a library I know not of, in a book I hope exists.

The most elusive piece of my construct patiently awaits that sentence which would define me, awaits those hands which hold this book open and eyes which read more than just words.

I’m a noise, a nuisance, a charade, a hardbound covered in dust to the aloof passer-by or I’m just that ‘something’ you'd get when you subtract the wail from a cry.

I’m tranquilized silence longing to be heard, in a world which has gone deaf.