Cemetery Of Books

The book was thick and black covered with dust and cob webs
as were the others in this cemetery of once remembered now lost books.
He was allowed to take but one of the thousands surrounding him.
As he touch the big black book, it was as if it knew him,
as if it called out his name marking his soul.
Yes, this was the one, the one possession he must have.
Later he would remember the thrill of finding this book.
All his life he would think of this place, this cemetery of forgotten books and wonder.

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About Cassiopeia Rises

I am an artist and a poet writing and living in NYC.
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