The Library

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.



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I am me. I am Me. I write when I want to be free.

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