in his solitude, moonless and lost
the ancient librarian shuffles
of seemingly identical chambers
for a single truthful apparition
in the pulp-fiction-platitudes left in the wake
of the righteous book-burning youths,
claiming that knowledge is the gravity-root
of their nation’s decay.
He should have
known that the voices
of populist clowns was merely
a canary bird
singing to warn
of circles in soot being drawn
on our doors
and the coming of pyres to burn.
the librarian smiles
in the knowledge
of books he kept hidden,
from ashes of books
knowledge might phoenix again.
I wrote this poem form the wordlist of Kerry but realized how this installment about my aged librarian might fit the pictures of Rochelle, and my belief that as long as we keep memories and stories alive we can rebuild what seems to be breaking.
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly prompt where we write stories (and sometimes poems) in hundredd words to the same image selected by Rochelle
Click on the caged frog to release more stories.