Dying for you

As I lay dying, all words are unspoken while in my isolation I long to turn again, two hundred and eighty eight times. There was a season, I can't be expected to remember the hour, when I was wanted, revered, even celebrated habitually, by the masses in just about every corner of the world. I suppose the jubilation was most evident at my royal birth. Like a shiny object I was new, different, special, in my own way avant-garde. I imagine seeing all of them that loved me long ago cradling my healthy spine, holding me on their lap, staring at me pensively in wonder, touching me, unable to put me down. But that was then and this is now and like me, all things shall pass, grow old, collect dust, and become neglected, eventually turning into dust. Although I can sense my demise is on the horizon, I am still hopeful and not belittled, that is, as long as others like you come along and decide to revive me; then, I just may survive and embrace another wind. Either way it has been a good life, of this I am sure, and I owe all my success, my accolades to him. Along with the others, I am eternally grateful for his genius. Although he is long gone from this earth, wouldn't William Faulkner love to know I am still desired? Come. Pick me up off the shelf. Dust me off. Read me. Turn my two hundred and eighty eight pages one at a time. Keep me alive, As I Lay Dying.