Ps.38 Author and perfecter

The library is silent.
There are no words;
Hope lays bound.
Self-biography falls from the shelf,
I forget myself and am hushed to nothing;
Knowledge gathers dust on dust.
I open an empty page,
It falls back to less than it had hoped to be.
Glasses shattered I could not read if even there were unblotted pages.
Eyes dimmed in pain I could not read if even every page was not torn.
Language forgotten in heart and mind.
Emptiness fills the arrangement of shelves.
‘Till a scream.
A charge.
The mighty structures forced.
Uprooted, they begin to fall,
To engulf me and shatter my bones with autumn leaves of fiction.
Buried, I wait …
Hoping to hear the authors voice.

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