In an old library, shadows creep and curl, 

Where moonbeams shyly refuse to unfurl, 

Its walls hold whispers, a secret swirl, 

A place where ancient tales unfurl.

 

Books, like ghosts, line the dusty shelf, 

Whispering stories, keeping to themselves, 

Of love and loss, fortune and stealth, 

In the library's dim, forgotten wealth.

 

Each page a portal to times long gone, 

Where shadows dance and legends spawn, 

Tales that haunt you till the dawn, 

In the library where time's withdrawn.

 

In corners dark, where spiders play, 

Rest tales of night, far from day, 

Secrets that never see the light of ray, 

In the library where shadows sway.

 

Here, spirits of authors past do dwell, 

In each word, their stories swell, 

A haunting chorus, a spectral bell, 

In the library's ancient, echoing cell.

 

A chill in the air, a silent scream, 

Each book a holder of a dream, 

Or a nightmare, in the extreme, 

In the library, things aren't what they seem.

 

Tales of horror, of love, of strife, 

Whispers of a bygone life, 

Bound in leather, edge like knife, 

In the library, with mystery rife.

 

No windows here, just candle's glow, 

Casting shadows, high and low, 

Secrets that only the night does know, 

In the library, where time moves slow.

 

In this realm of the quiet and dark, 

Every book leaves its mark, 

A journey on which you embark, 

In the library, an ancient ark.

 

Here the whispers, secrets keep, 

In the library, where shadows seep, 

In its tales, deep and steep, 

Rests a world, in eternal sleep.

 

©2023  William A. Smith