Dust settles like forgotten dreams,
Among the shelves, torn at the seams.
A book lies open, its pages worn,
Its whispers soft, its words forlorn.

The echoes of a time once bright,
Now hidden in the absent light.
Spines once straight, now bent and frayed,
Stories lost, yet still they stay.

But listen close, if you dare,
The books still breathe, their voices rare.
For every tale, though left unread,
Still lingers in the words unsaid.