Nothing in Particular

On a fine
December day, when the sun does shine,
I breathe in the smell
Of old books, and hope all may be well.

Dust causes me to cough.
One may scoff
At the idea
Yet I fancy, death brings up the rear.

My wardrobe door creaks at a late hour.
Reason’s power
Has gone astray
And I pray
That despair
Remains in his lair.

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