Brown

Dust and must singing softly, smelling sweetly.
Sinking, swimming in a sea of brown. Books, shelves, a leather chair.

He is small, still, and almost swallowed by the ancient seat.
Younger in years than many, older at heart than few.
Sitting, he pours over pages and pages, reading passage after passage.

A warm light lurks behind. 

Sun bathes the slatted blinds, lining the room in limitless slices.

The glow beckons, wishing, wanting, and waiting for one to come to live for its warm embrace.

He stays. He sits. Still, safe, and silent.

Never to know of love or the sun.