He built his home with ink on paper,
his world was walled with words.
And with myopic eyes he gardened
in the soil of sagging shelves, he sowed
with books a mirrored maze of self.
He lend his voice to others, to poets
of the past, to his guests and patrons.
His home was library.
Decay came slowly to his home.
The library was built before the city glitzed
with neon billboards making reading obsolete.
It was built with pride, before we cobwebbed
with the ignorance of gold and goods.
No wrecking ball was ever used against its walls
but his library is crumbling from the cataract
that almost left him homeless.
But with letters only left as shadows
on its graying walls.
The aged librarian smiles;
he recites a poem that he knows by heart.
“My home has shrunk but still
it’s stronger than its walls.”
I will also link up to poetry pantry tomorrow.
March 18 2017