The Library [Poetry]

The tips of my fingers
bump over valleys of volumes;
history hidden behind the boneless spines
of each relic I touch.

My eyes smile with silent elation
as I reach for a solid body,
dislodging one pillar from the collective.

Its neighbour relaxes;
a fallen domino.

A dust storm erupts on the table
as my hands loosen their grip;
the force of an aircraft
blissfully crashing onto its runway.

Forever forgotten
yet yearning to be unearthed
once more;
a senile foetus aching to be hugged.

Generations of lost wisdom,
longing to be a revelation,

slowly

decay as a lifeless monument.

I feel obliged
to give these pages new light;

new Life.

In the corner
the old man’s eyes bounce incessantly
in search of a companion;

nobody

willing to hear his story.

Alone.

A lonely soul;

collecting dust.

* * *

I’m a poet and I didn’t even realise it. I submitted this poem as part of my University Creative Writing assessment for semester one. It’s not my typical style of writing and it probably sounds a little pretentious, but it was nevertheless an enjoyable challenge. If you have no idea what it’s about, or are struggling to identify the significance of the ‘senile foetus’ just let me know and I’ll do my best to explain. Otherwise if you have any criticism, advice or encouragement, feel free to leave a comment.

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