402 – The Unread Book

Poem number 402
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The Unread Book
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His heart was rented out, it seems
Though he had thought it sold.
Just childish loves and childish dreams
No comfort to the old.
He lies there now in silence
Single sheets, an early night
His body wrought with violence
And the fading of the light.
His hand so lined, an unread page
Unheld, upon the bed.
No one to hold it in old age
And no one now he’s dead.