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.