The shelves stretch off
as far as weary eyes can see.
Storied walls into the
vastness of time, the chasms of history.
Consuming every word,
like Venus fly traps,
snapping at any morsel letter
that bumbles through,
adding them to
the magnitudes of
manuscripts that blow
across the cavernous room.
Ripped, torn pages
that hold secrets
tearstain glued
between.
The shelves stretch,
like damp walls of a well,
deep into the depths, the bowels of hell.
Dimensions, mean nothing
up is down, left is circling around,
and right is acting the clown.
There is magic in the storied leaves
of these majestic trees.
Letters move
like fridge magnets
across the winsome breeze.
The canyon of glass
that adorns the pathway
is filled with verse,
etched upon the clear surface,
The seating all made of words,
twisted into shape
to rest wearisome feet.
Even the food
from the little cafe,
along the everlasting walkway,
is served in edible words,
strung together like spaghetti
spilling truths down jumpers,
as you go about your day.
But not everything
is so peaceful
in this world of words.
The deceitful shadows
hide secrets,
too delicate
for even shadows to hold,
too scary
for ears to behold,
too terrifying
for eyes to unsee.
Let's hope no one
ever let's these words float free.
Thanks for reading
