I am but a breath in this cathedral of words,
hushed by the imposition of a vow of silence,
a sacred quiet for the sake of ten thousand inward voices,
devouring thoughts with which they do agree,
dismissing others not so blessed,
dissecting and diverting all the others that might be.
I am but a mist in this abbey of literary prayers,
set and stacked,
in such an orderly way,
processed and placed,
in such an insitutional way,
row by row,
yes, always more and more.
An old man snoozes with an apron of newsprint upon his lap,
his half-rim glasses hold on to the tip of his nose,
he sometimes snores,
he sometimes sleeps,
sometimes he even reads
bits and pieces of history in their making,
but just a few,
just a few,
he needs no more.
A grey haired lady in her very practical shoes,
makes her appointed round in a quite military,
her heels clomping
in a very busy meter,
her lips shushing
in a very impatient tone,
they keep coming through the door,
disturbing this hallowed hall,
this hallowed, hollow hall,
and their always moving this and that,
and never putting back.
The grey haired woman pushes her empty cart,
the old man slips off into his muttering dream,
the dusty lights seem to dim,
as does the sound of this aging night,
and I drift off into an eternal place,
where the ancient words find their present voice,
and mingle with the questions of my life,
page by page,
page by page,
of one small book
in all of this,
this memorial of books being written
and left unread,
upon the shelves
of the more and more.
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