Let Neglected Authors Speak again

Light opera songs sung cheerily upstairs,

book browsers scowl, throw pointless glares;

under desk, price tags jigsaw on vinyl,

battalions of books, unevenly spinal.


Rows of books, somewhat regimented

pages permeate, shop sweetly scented;

authors are sinners, authors are saints,

some show caution, others, no restraint.


Waiting wooden ladders stand angled,

there’s little in this shop new fangled

but books galore, differing typefaces,

stories transport us to distant places.


Hidden train tickets, often old stamps,

some books pristine, others foxed-damp,

some underlined or margin annotated,

autodidact opinions pedant stated.


Languages learned, differing truths,

books are mentors missed in youth;

historians challenge narrative witness:

skinny Shaw queries Chesterton’s fitness.


Let these neglected voices speak again,

older authors bless hearts and brains,

gems may be found if you diligently delve,

serendipity lurks among dusty shelves…

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