Fading ink from a time past
A precious commodity
For the collector
Of rare books
Chasing down words written
By the esteemed
Whitman, Lorca, Neruda
Bindings worn thin
The original always
In demand
Now being erased
And digitized
Like your face
Expressionless
Frozen in time
Hands kneading in the
Dirt and grime
An auto biography
Worth reading
Buried, disappearing lines
Exalted and desired
By the caretakers of history
Where were you when
The lights went out
