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The Library
by Willow DuBrovin
I look to thoughts for comfort,
a thirst for knowledge, I couldn’t quench.
I venture to fulfill, I venture to learn,
a need to ponder, a need to unclench.
I stand at the door a Library great,
with endless shelfs, of endless books.
I am excited, my thoughts elate,
stained glass windows of gods of morn,
I float through corridors with bliss,
finally a place to call my own,
gifted as my own abyss,
A place I yearned for ages since born.
Covers and covers of beautiful books,
spiders hidden within the nooks.
I ignore the silver cobwebs, I get drunken off the sight.
I skim page after page, thoughts encaged by knowledge’s plight.
Finally, a place to quench, or extinguish my own unknown,
a place to learn, a place to think, for what can I atone?
The hands of gods reach my mind,
with malice, fingers of scalpels and razors.
They don’t like my presence, it seems
because I never joined their praisers.
Yet I continue on, reading books like a river
flooded by a domineering dam.
The moonlight trickles through stained glass,
and I’ve joined the stargazers again.
Years gone by, and I remain here
in this Library great designed.
I’ve learned all there is to know,
learned all there is to define.
But when I try to leave,
I then realize I’ve been confined.
The beautiful doors remain bind,
because the Library is my mind.
