Dust on the Shelf

Dust collects on the spines, shadows lie thick,

and the stories I loved seem to fade, slow and sick.

Each title a ghost, whispering sweet lies,

a year without joy, where the magic just dies.

I used to get lost in the pages, a thrill,

as worlds unfolded, each promise to fill.

But obligations wrapped tight, squeezing out light,

and I sat here in silence, in black and in white.

Now I glance at the pile, my heart aches for more,

a half-open book, memories that I wore.

But life has become a dim echo of fun,

a distant reminder of stories undone.