This silence. This sombre silence defines this large
Room. The shelves hide the emptiness. The books
Flood in the loneliness. The book covers; they hide
The loud words behind the large stacks that deafen
This room’s sentiments. Filed, recorded, piled in long
Rows of material firmness, to display each stack as
Editions of experience that could help rule the world;
If only they were opened. If only they were read and
Understood the room would be a marketplace.
The lighting would be better, the shelves would feel
Warmer and the words would scream louder and clearer.
This room. It has the sombre ambience of a cemetery;
The shelves lined like tombstones reading last rights
And elegies. The long piles give off the imaginary white
Glow of clean skeletons and the words in there are the
Muck and puss of the earth. If only the soul of the room
Were not drawn to seek out patronage. If only this soul
Gave life to this room. All it wants is space on a shelf.