The Ghost Bookstore
an old, forgotten bookstore.
That’s where old books go to die.
When the covers close forever,
No more open to the eye.
It’s the place where what’s once-popular
Meets what has never been;
It’s the place where fads and fantasies
Sit near “The Next Great Thing.”
It’s the store where unknown authors
Never really had a chance.
As their books sat in the back
Near some old Harlequin Romance.
There are children’s books and novels,
There is poetry and prose,
And just how all the books end up here
No one really knows.
Because no one owns the building
(As it sits six stories high),
And the door is never open,
Though no one ever wonders “why?”
The paint is dark and peeling,
And the sign it just says “BOOKS.”
And if it isn’t there tomorrow,
No one cares, ‘cause no one looks.
One night it’s there, the next it’s gone;
Like Baba Yaga’s Hut.
Gathering up refined dust
And classics too-long shut.
So there’s a place where old books go
When they are read no more.
Yes, there’s is a place where old books go.
It’s called The Ghost Book Store.
So don’t be sad for your old books
You’ve not read in a spell,
You didn’t lend or lose them,
And they aren’t down in Hell.
But they’re not in Heaven either,
And they’re not being re-covered.
They’re just sitting in the Ghost Bookstore,
Waiting to be rediscovered.
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