In the grand library of life,
we are each a single book,
on one shelf. Paper bricks.
Stretching away into the distance.
Each connected by thin letter strands,
like hands that pull life's covers closer.
Sentences sticking them together.
Each page a single day,
diaries written, signed
and underlined by invisible hands,
the flowing sands sway.
Marking out the hours
over pages written then pushed away.
Every hand that held ours
entwined in the pages,
in their heavy bind.
Some names given a highlight.
With reference to another book
somewhere down the shelf line.
Whole lands have books devoted
to their tides, the ebbs and flows.
The coastal erosion.
Where the rivers go.
The pathways that become
scratched upon their surface,
marked down, to be corrected in time.
Buildings erected, then scribbled in ink.
When they fall their death date
is scrawled onto the biography link.
Every buzzing insect,
every creature
large and small.
Spider, ant, elephant, cow,
hedgehog rolled up into a ball.
All have biographies.
Each a shelf devoted
to their entire genealogy.
In the basement the dinosaurs roar,
but the top floors sit empty for now.
In the darkest depths, history
or prelude as I like to call it.
A place seen by so many
as not importan,
but it's a lesson on where we will be
if we don’t read the pages
and soak up the knowledge base.
This grand library of life
sits empty,
but for the ghosts of words
floating around.
The sands of time ebbing out.
The comet heading for it now.
The core ready to self-destruct.
This library is in its final hour
and this place is surely fucked.
Thanks for reading
Please take a few moments
to check out my new book "Poetic Outlaw"
available from Amazon
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CVQ5F9K8/
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