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A Rondel Lamenting the Slow Demise of the Indie Bookstore

Bookcases, empty and bare,

Stand purposeless, as if in error.

Where once the walls were lined with books

Now barren shelves attract no looks

 

The dark store, a cavernous lair,

A shadowy shell of what was there

When we could lose ourselves with care

In stories from book-laden nooks,

Then fly away.

 

The empty shelves, they show their wear,

The books have gone to God-knows-where.

Were they stolen by some odd crooks

Or, like a parliament of rooks,

Spread inky wings, take to air

Then fly away.

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