mythoughtspill.com

In some corner of the world,

A small corner,

I am bent over an old musty poetry book,

With yellowing pages,

And a smell of age,

In a different language, but same,

Most have never learned to read,

It smells of pipe smoke and old coffee,

Of warm cozy evenings and sunny Sunday mornings,

And I sit, I read the poetry of yesteryear,

As the world passes me by.