Smelling the must of vintage books
horizontally lined across the shelves
with some stacked against the walls.
Trying to find my way.
Filling the void
with all the things
other people say.
An emptiness aches within.
I struggle to find any satisfaction.
Then I pick up one of the books,
used and faded like me,
pages crumpled and torn.
drawing my attention.
God’s grace is sufficient.
for even me?