Upon my shelves the books in rows do stand,
A library of dreams, both vast and grand.

Each tome a world, a tale, a voice to speak,
Yet time, the thief, makes every moment weak.

With every dawn, the hours swiftly slip,
As pages turn to dust within my grip.

The stories wait in silence, still unread,
While life demands its path by duty led.

Oh, how I yearn to wander through each tale,
To sail on seas where wondrous words prevail.

But tasks of day, like anchors, hold me tight,
And keep me from my books from morn till night.

So here I stand, amidst the works that gleam,
And dream of time to read without a seam.

©April 15, 2025

Diane E. Dockum