The Old Library

The Old Library

Dust rises like ghosts from the shelves,

and the air tastes of ink and forgotten voices.

I walk slowly between towers of books,

their spines dull but heavy with life.

Some stories scream, others whisper,

but all speak to the same truth:

time does not erase what is written,

even when no one reads the pages.

A candle flickers in the corner,

casting shadows that dance along the ceiling.

I breathe in the weight of knowledge,

the smell of paper aged to patience.

Outside, the world moves without care,

but here, silence is a companion,

the heart of the old library beating quietly,

holding centuries in a single room,

and I feel myself folded into it,

part of something eternal, fragile yet endless.

The floorboards groan beneath careful steps,

echoes of visitors long gone

mingling with the rustle of pages,

and I imagine each book a life

waiting to be discovered,

each sentence a door into someone else’s soul.

I linger near a window,

watching rain smear the streets into silver rivers.

The storm outside is no threat,

only a mirror to the storms within these pages,

turbulent hearts, restless minds,

all speaking to anyone who will listen.

I close a book gently,

feeling its weight linger in my hands,

and I know that the library

does not simply hold stories,

it holds parts of us we never thought to name,

and I leave with a quiet reverence,

carrying a whisper of eternity

in the spaces between my ribs.