In absence of the mirrors
the aged librarian still
can see himself as shadows
dancing, as an apparition
in his secret catalogue of books
His exile to the library
has never been
a virtue but a shameless choice
a sacrifice of youth
a trauma only found in texts.
The library is not his prison
but a thistled garden
with a picket fence
where only stifled sounds can tell him
of the clamor in the world outside.
I am a bit late to the party with Helen at toads. I have used some of the words from the list in this strange glimpse from the library.
Also adding to dVerse where Laura asks us to writa about madness.
September 11, 2019