The books on the shelf
by cyclopseven Ram
From tall short small and big
All are weeping dry tears
Because my eyes stopped rambling
The pages for sometime.
Desperate indeed their longing
For my fingers to rub over the pages
Flirting with the words laid on them
In orderly manners
From left to right
And Top to bottom.
With different tales to tell me
Each one waiting eagerly
For me to browse them emphatically
Greedily devour their contents
So, my mind be filled with their intents.
Every book strangely looks
At me in silent and penetrating gaze
Anticipating my soothing travel of my eyes
To take place across their face
As soon as I possibly could.
All weeps with deepest sadness
For this man to gauge the scintillating concepts
That spreads across the bonded pages,
Except for one book yonder on top of the shelf
Seemingly happy at the absence of my fingers
Which, would otherwise roam across her pages
In search of words and meanings appropriate
That reluctantly she would obey.
Happy and contented
Being left alone, in her own world.