Shelf-Life

Shelf-Life

That disused section reeks
as if its books have defecated
at the thought of being left:
their spines no longer fingered,
pages no longer thumbed,
words no longer read nor imbibed
into some greater consciousness
where they can come to rest.
 
They squat there, passive in their dirty protest,
waiting for death’s hearty greeting
at the bottom of a pit licked by a flame
that’s gentle at first
then burns them from the outside in
until all that’s left are the charred reminders
of their hardback covers,
their scattered words falling
as ashen snowflakes
over Berlin.