The Library’s Fleeting Dreams of What It Means to Be Human
A Poem
--
it is dark
in your own special room
with all your shelves bursting
with so much promise, so much hope,
if only someone would take the time
to notice you
and then
that’s where he comes in
his fingertips flutter against all your spines,
and you might shiver if you had skin
instead of leather and paper and ink,
all bound together in a spell
that makes him come back
each and every time
but you know better than to think
he will always find favor in your pages
because you know enough of humans
to recognize that feelings never last
and you could be just another
passing fancy in his life
it happened once,
and it may happen again
it is chilly
in this room of your own,
but still he keeps returning
like a curious child ever grasping
for some sense of purpose and meaning
in a world almost too big to explore in full
sometimes he picks one book
only to replace it on the shelf again
and you might pout if you had lips —
but, no, you’re just a trove of tales
waiting on happenstance to lead the way
because you know there’s magic between the lines
but then there are days
where he finds one tome to fill his time,
and he will sit for hours and hours,
always craving but one chapter more
and your pages sigh as he turns them,
so eager to know what will happen next
