t i m e

Words.

Simple,

precise,

complex.

Letters upon letters.

Written page upon page.

Contained within

two small covers.

Set upon a shelf,

amongst dust covered

volumes.

Only this

has a gleam to it,

as if it’s waiting

to be uncovered.

There are four

simple letters.

Pressed into the front,

filled with

compacted dust.

t i m e.

Within each page

holds,

letters.

Some upside down,

others backwards.

All crammed into

every blank space.

On every page.

Not one has

been left,

forgotten.

But all,

filled.

As the shadows

dawn over the

crisp timber

desk.

The pages change,

transforming.

Showing

what was

once hidden.

Yet those near

only saw a brief

discolouration.

As if the

book

was becoming

older by the

second.

With the shadows

closing in,

the pages

were left,

spread over

the rough wood.

Unable to see

what was hidden

beneath the

layers.

The light

flickered on

warm and

bright.

Bleaching the

pages

to reveal,

yet again

another

meaning,

yet only for

the keen

eye.

As the

leaves on the

trees

began to crinkle

and fade,

so too did

the pages.

As if the

writing was

interconnected

with the seasons.

Slowly,

bit by bit

a journey was

revealed.

Only to be

seen within

carefully,

constructed

moments.

As days

turned into

weeks.

Dust gathered

in the space

left between

the books.

While a

shiny black

corner,

could be seen

poking out of

bags.

Carried from

place to place.

In an effort to

uncover what

was hidden.

Gradually the

pages faded.

The ink

dispersing

until the

whole page

faded into

inky blackness.

Starting at the

front cover

and slowly

working its

way back.

Yet the journey

continued,

for the one

who held the

pages.

Was not willing

to let it

be.

Not willing

to return it to

its place.

But instead

carried it

in every

and any

pocket.

Peering within

the inky

sea,

hoping to catch

a glimpse of

what was and

what might be again.

Fervently wishing

they had more

time,

to decipher.

Time to read.

Time to glean.

Yet day upon day,

the scribble

and words

continued to

fade and

swirl.

As the

seasons

turned,

so too did

the pages.

One by one.

Resting on

cold counter tops

and cushiony seats.

Being searched

over and over.

Waiting.

Longing to know

why

these pages shifted,

why it had sat,

untouched for

generations.

Gathering dust.

Its cover

slowly

crumbling,

deteriorating.

Under

the consistent

shadows.

Forgotten and

hidden beneath

the dust and

grim of the

study.

Yet now out

beneath the

blazing sun,

it still appears

to deteriorate.

Whilst the cover

is as new as ever.

Its insides are

sinking within

itself.

In what

appears to be

an effort to

conceal the past.

As the worn

pages were

shuffled through

calloused fingertips,

the ink continued

to spread.

As if a

squid had inked

to protect itself.

Even the fingertips

became tinted

like the ink of

an old newspaper.

Yet it didn’t

persuade it’s

reader to

return it.

As the months

turned to years,

only a few

markings were

visible.

The rest lost

within the

inky black sky.

As the final

ones too,

began to fade.

The journey

started twisting,

leading back to

where it had

begun.

Pushed and

shoved,

within forgotten

corners.

Yet still carried

and occasionally

it would

resurface

to be

flicked through

and then

cast aside.

Until

amongst the

pressing odour

of words,

some old,

others new.

It returned.

Squeezed back

into the dusty

space.

Cosy once again

within well

worn shelves.

Yet once

the inked

pages connected

with the

bare shelf.

A squeaking

noise could

be heard.

Until the

entire wall

gave way.

To reveal

a single

document.

Along with a

chipped wooden

chest.

The document

once opened

unveiled a page

with similar

markings as

before.

As the wooden

chest was

lifted out,

the bottom

gave way.

With a loud

thud.

Echoing

through

the shadows.

An overpowering

smell of

rotten wood

encompassed

the room.

Brushing off

the dust and

rotted wood.

Revealed

gleaming,

glittering

gold.

Bars upon bars

of it.

More than

$20,000 worth.

Hidden

within

the pages

of a

little

black

book.