I search the shelves for something new.
I walked up and down the hall with care.
The guides on the wall were tattered.
I was so proud as I left.
I had bought only one book and kept my budget.
Its binding was lettered blue, gold and brown.
All the author’s ideas are just ink on paper.
His name has been forgotten by time.
I deliberated carefully.
I waited to find something new.
I saw the paradox of searching through the old words.
I found something new on the dusty shelves.
I felt joy for the opportunity to learn more.
W. Wayne B.
New poetry book: Eyes of Hope
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