Aching Atlas

Shelves that imitate life
in a collapse of hinges,
in a spluttering of book pages
like white flags on the floor.
Sighing wood planks
that have refused to bear
the crinkling binding, a workload
of ancient words that
mean as little to them as they
do to the sun that swims through
their dull covers.
Shelves that collect dust
while they ponder their
suffering away,
flecks of gray
fainting on their scratched surfaces.
Shelves that find
no reason to
remain obedient,
they laugh in splinter of plaster,
plunging wide-eyed to the floor.
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