With thick layered dust
as these haven't taken a shower
for a long time;
Placed within the shelf, into its old sick guard;

Containing all the dawn of knowledge,
Principles of life, love, humanity,
And the lessons of knowing the sound
of the soul it lives;

With little paleness, breathing
Humidity, holding some old folds
those have turned to a deep wound.

Without talking to other books;
Keeping the hope of being glanced again,
It Spends life within there, like a prisoner,
Carrying little faded words like it's hope is dying;

With a mute sea of feeling,
Living like a strange upon own track of lines;
Freckles have started to savour,
Hopes are getting dale.

That's not enough
It is facing a lot beneath there,
Let's take it out, let that breath;

Lets allow it some swirl of air,
Lets turn its page together,
Glancing is its only demand,
Lets remove its fear, why to allow it to tear.

__________________________________________*_____________________________________

This poem is about feelings of a book, when it is considered obsolete and is left cause it becomes old as compared to others...
The book might be feeling like "Stranded by us"
Thus i chose the title "Stranded book"
I hope you will enjoy reading :)