Gideon's Dust

The channels blurred, a flat, dead light.

My fingers found it in the night,

that slim, blue book, so stiff and strange,

a dusty promise, out of range.

The pages thin, like skin long shed,

they rustled, whispers from the dead.

A brittle corner, turned and worn,

for every soul that felt forlorn.

It smells of stale, recycled air,

of cheap despair, and quiet prayer.

No answers here, no sudden grace,

just ink on paper, in this place.

A thousand hands have felt this weight,

a thousand hopes, sealed by fate.

I closed it slow, no peace to glean,

just someone else's tired scene.