Pink moons + Rusty pens

They each write their story's,
which
Are no story's at all
Just a word then
Left gently vibrating
Grey on grey
Day on day, authors unheard
of
And deeply away

No readers for old books
In such libraries of dust
Just earthfulls and earthfulls
Of pens
Left to rust, and
 
Sometimes, just maybe
A fox to stop by
Or a moon glowing pink in a
sky,
Who might cry

M P 29/7/21