HOME | DD

Description
I stand in the old stone building,
watching the shelves dissolve into a maze;
their walls a barrier that I need,
All around me I hear whispers,
between books, and paper; and words
I have returned to this old library for solitude and comfort
life has been harsh of late,
so it's back to shelves and
ancient papers of olden days,
their flavor's sift beneath my tired eyes
The stories they hold
the secrets they can tell
slip through my consciousness
the bindings; some old some new,
some leather, some hard
they, one and all slide beneath my finger tips
I am alone, it is only me and the old man behind the desk
I do not see the wind banging the old crooked window
I do not hear the rain beating the old shutters
I see and hear only this sacred place
the smell of books, the smell of dust
the smell of corridors long forgotten
I am drunk with the smell of this place
I am dizzy with the prospect of greeting old friends
and making new ones
slowly, carefully I traverse these sacred rows
picking and choosing which books
I will take to my favorite corner in the upper balcony
with the old red velvet chair, and the wooden desk
Upon which sits an elegant reading lamp
the old man will come get me when he is ready to leave for the day
and together we will shut the heavy wooden doors,
walk down the steps,
and part ways in silent companionship

Description
I stand in the old stone building,
watching the shelves dissolve into a maze;
their walls a barrier that I need,
All around me I hear whispers,
between books, and paper; and words
I have returned to this old library for solitude and comfort
life has been harsh of late,
so it's back to shelves and
ancient papers of olden days,
their flavor's sift beneath my tired eyes
The stories they hold
the secrets they can tell
slip through my consciousness
the bindings; some old some new,
some leather, some hard
they, one and all slide beneath my finger tips
I am alone, it is only me and the old man behind the desk
I do not see the wind banging the old crooked window
I do not hear the rain beating the old shutters
I see and hear only this sacred place
the smell of books, the smell of dust
the smell of corridors long forgotten
I am drunk with the smell of this place
I am dizzy with the prospect of greeting old friends
and making new ones
slowly, carefully I traverse these sacred rows
picking and choosing which books
I will take to my favorite corner in the upper balcony
with the old red velvet chair, and the wooden desk
Upon which sits an elegant reading lamp
the old man will come get me when he is ready to leave for the day
and together we will shut the heavy wooden doors,
walk down the steps,
and part ways in silent companionship