The Old Book

Its delicate pages, raspy like my Uncle's voice
the little lumps of mould cover its leaves;
aphids on swan plants.
Small blotches of spilt wine and smeared ink
tattoo its inner layers
its little tatty tears span out in every direction.

Its gentle features leave it
defenceless--a fish without water
Its distinct smell of sour vanilla and wine linger
as droplets of dew
settle on the thick layer of dust;
a woven blanket
lying lifeless, its colour ageing,
as it shrivels up like fingers
too long in water.