Untitled Poem, Unearthed

Looking back through my old blog over at Livejournal, I found this poem I had written:

Her book of poems found its way
to sit comfortably next to the Bible
the Mormon's gave me.
Her spine white, and sharp like a knife.
His, black and dull.
The two sit there still, one supporting the other,
yet surrounded by strange books
with questionable intentions.
Somehow their poetic souls mingle amongst the chaos.
Their words, standing in line patiently,
one after the other,
waiting for the moment for which they were born.
Their moment comes and goes
in what may or may not have been a thought.