Complaints From a Very Old Book
By Kathleen Young-Maple

I've been touched by hundreds of hands

These hands have worn
my cover lifeless
with only traces of a previous introduction

Oily hands have left
invisible marks
that stain my pages making my words hard to read

Young hands that don't
respect or understand my old words
they bend my pages
scars that cannot be fixed

Sick hands
that died
soon after
taking my words with them.

Traveling hands that left me for dead
in forgotten places bookcases
never to be found by new hands
death comes very slowly for me.

Next Poem