The books I've read line the shelves in rows of multicolored, many textured lines of word only I see. The words form together to beget meaning that only I with the experiences of my life can understand and explain fully. Others may or may not see the words according to their choice Through their actions more words are written, more books bound more shelves lined Some books are remembered, some not, judged by color of page Black is frequent. Individuals come and pick up the brightest colored covers, easiest to reach books and assume that is a synopsis of the entire selection this library holds They hardly ever even open the novel beyond that they never read beyond the first six words Some come here and pick up the same book and do the same thing over and over and think the same thing again and again. Sometimes I shove a word in their hands but they stare blankly at it, put it back on the shelf and forget its existence These words are being used less and less now, the books nowadays go mostly unobserved Dust lines the shelf as I walk the aisles I'm surprized now if anyone comes to this library anymore. All these words unopened unknown unspoken More and more the words tell of future books empty of bright color written more and more for no one to read but myself. I'll read them all hoping to forget them and what they speak of. They'll fortell an empty library, forgotten.