Stumbling in the dark in search of the little girls room
How long it’s been
Eons indeed
Since last fingers younger than these
Skimmed the pages of these fetid volumes
Moth eaten
Musty dusty pages
Stink of loss and life’s luck lost
The stench of death that will not come
And if I could behold my eyes
I’m sure they’d withered up and dried
Much as my soul has done these years
And thus this was the stench within the chamber
Aback, I stumble
Lift my candle
Moths now flit
into preamble
Sprinkling dust from lazy desperate wings
I take a glance but not for long
Upon the tome beneath my (???)
the spine of it
Now spineless
And the mind within
Now mindless
For the moths have had their way
feasting upon the glue
Tracing fingertips across blank pages
The sound of which is rough and ancient
I lift a page which falls apart
Then words appear
(I softly fart)
Losing inspiration as I write this
Something about slamming the book closed
And now the book lays closed
How the dust settled after it rose
Walking through a desperate time space
A darkened narrow passage with stone walls encroaching round
What place is this
Where writers souls may turn to dust
For lack of inspiration
Another chamber I stumble upon
A library wall to wall
Pull books from their places
All empty
One after another tossed upon the floor
Clouds of dust shattering silence
Then how it settled after it rose
Oh noes
And the pages of the book remain unwritten
Unless at last again I lift my pen
I will make my way out of this chamber
But first I think I’ll try to find the pot