This text was found in the aged librarian’s desk (postmortem), the handwriting was not that of the librarian but scribbled in green ink by an anonymous feminine hand.
Somewhere In the vastness of the library
(or any library)
it has been said
there is a book that in itself
contains every book not written yet.
It’s spine is uninspiring, its covers
dun and gently bland. It hides between
heavy leather-bound volumes or in the secret
most forbidden section of pornography.
It has never been in any index
no maps will lead you to the place it sits and it’s said
that its title changes with the year
and time of day.
This book can not be found
by anyone who desperately tries
to find or read it.
No scientist or priest has ever gazed upon a
single page of this deceitful book,
no judge or scholar will ever lay a hand
upon the pages of this deceptive
book of lore. No — the only one
who ever will find this work, is either way too young
to understand, or very close to dying.
I saw it once hiding next to Markis de Sade when I
was very young and copied down the text
above, and which you just
have read (which maybe proves my point).
A somewhat strange poem for dVerse OLN.
October 22, 2019