the dusty book shelf
Inside an old and musty house there was a decrepitdness to it. It smelt of stale donuts and smashed dried mellons. Not of chloroform and smashed purple potpurri. There was an err of absolution. But there in the house as you crept up the rickety stairs; there were candle holders embrazoned in cast gold. As you climb the stairs rather gingerly there are 18th century paintings of betwixt lighthouses. Earl Janrus was a sea captain as the wind kicked up rocks against the musty ladened lighthouse. Yet, no one was kicking rocks now. If you turn to the right and finger the walls a long corridor leads you bravely to a cobweb infested room. Masks greet you by candlelight. A green one with black markings. A red one with white markings. And a clear blue one with green markings. Then there it is the musty and encrusted bookshelf. The dust follows the air and the particle trails stay in line near a green eyed window. When you look at the book shelf large bold authors like Chaucer, Shakespeare, Nietzsche and Freudian books lie on the shelf. Dusty as all hell. The next odd thing is a box. No key required just a passion for the game. You fidget with ivory chess pieces. One silkier than the last. As you finger one it reveals to the touch a bishop and now a rook. There are no boards here. Just an ominous and dusty old book shelf. Where did this come from and whom did it belong to?