Poem on the shelf

It has been standing on crutches
i bought from a priest,
Looking over the edge it has seen
the floor weigh itself up and down
like an astronaut tearing off his space suit
years ago even an empty envelop,
would have drawn before itself
a path beyond the roof
would have assumed a galaxy like figuration

In its many lives this shelf
witnessed the burning of effigies
that resembled each moment,
dust and its devices were rubbed off its shoulders

But a poem has heart,
it has character enough
to be the short skirted girl behind
an elevated glass door at 2 am in the morning

My nucleus within itself
argues about the propensity
towards such things
I could take the chair's hand
to reach for it,or to hang myself

But my head,already
is an anthology of dead poems
as my body is of dead men..