He's been here for a while.
He watches the room
Wondering when he'll be noticed
Across the room he sees someone
He thinks about shouting a call
But can't.
For he cannot speak.
Not so much as even move.
He is bound to his spot.
The dirty corner where all the bunnies roam
He craves attention.
Because he used to have many friends.
Friends that would play with him everyday
For he always had new ideas.
And never had an old one
Time has gotten the best of him.
Wrinkled and withered.
From all the scars and dark bruises.
For he is Frail.
He has lived a hundred years
But still has much life
But he is not mad
For he has himself
But over time becomes lonely.
He's just
The Lonely Book on the Shelf.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem