In a realm where shadows and silence lie, 

'Neath the gaze of a full moon sky, 

Stands an ancient building, old and high, 

Where whispers and secrets ally.

 

Within its walls, are dusty rooms, 

Books line the shelves like hoary tombs,

Waiting there to be exhumed, 

To be plucked from their paper womb.

 

Tales of sorrow, tales of fright, 

Bound in leather, veiled from sight, 

Whispering only throughout the site, 

Amidst enlightenment's radiant light.

 

Each opus a keeper of forgotten lore, 

Of love lost, of laughter, of time and war, 

Their words drip like blood to the floor, 

In the shade of the keep's ancient door.

 

Ghosts of writers, long since dead, 

In every line their souls have bled, 

Their haunted genius, in blacks and reds, 

By masterminds and by dunderheads.

 

Eerie tales of the macabre and arcane, 

In this temple imaginings reign, 

Fantasy, fact, and fiction appertain, 

With the dusty Dewey decimal domain.

 

The windows shuttered, no light intrudes, 

In this haven of quiet interludes, 

A labyrinth of books, in their multitudes, 

A minotaur’s portion in plentitude.

 

In this ancient hall, time stands still,

Always summer, at your will,

Sagas that flowed from an ancient quill,

Daydreams and Golden Legends fulfilled.

 

In the realm of fore and hindsight.

Lie the wisdom of ages, out of sight, 

Woolgathering and pipe dreams, take flight, 

In this sanctum sanctorum of light.

 

©2023  William A. Smith