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Crumbling

on the far tables
are open books, strewn neglected
approaching another dawn
leaving the occasional visitor
to seek their meanings

the crumbling pages
with inks of some language
with meanings to some heart
through careful inspection
came to view tragedies

~in a few mutinous sad spheres
they lived, cultures undulating
timeless faces and languages
that once populated this books

in the death of some
and the extinction of their ways
pages were torn
the books are thinner now
but kept safe
their masters resting in ageless earth

glory to the fractured histories
gathered from this incomplete books
what’s written in blood are forgotten
what was vague is now retold
as the newcomer's history
and they push back time
and the edges of sand
to pasts never existing
memories rewritten
paths came into existence
where jungles enchanted before

I see false lines and times
when they speak and act
like they own this earth
but I am assured by time itself
that they are insignificant
just as
the histories they created
will break apart soon
and all that remains are more books
strewn across library floors
when shelves, the foundations crumble
and they face the reluctant
destiny

-gp08-


[+] Not to be taken too seriously, I don't know what I wrote, and I cant stop myself, its another of that 10 minutes thingy. Somehow I miss the library, I just need to find time to return and get lost among the shelves.
[+] I did a picture post of the library long ago. And the poem I wrote in the library;

Of Ages and Questions

An October evening creeping near,
upon a flight of stairs I tire,
endless formations of spaces clear,
welcoming me in uneasy desire.

Invisible wind(s) brushing past,
blind as it is to see but it must,
fervently I try to catch its tail,
hope to fly away in a mystery sail,

A greeting, some threading and blue ties,
with it rows of books and age old mites,
one too many faces and repeating threes,
three friends with three books on three floors.

Decades of books, journals and chairs,
left to perish along with some king,
minions and archers on high shelves,
and a bonfire made of Eliot’s and old Jung.

Beautiful faces and shiny eyes,
no not the devil or its bride,
just slaves tracing ageless lexis,
who among many might one day write.

Time and sunset subsequently alight,
pages and shelves feast delight,
astronomers and artist are searching right,
a few books, Sylvia and an endless night.

-gP2005-03/10/05-

[+] 4 more days to salvation. And things are not looking good, read the post below if you want to know why.

Comments

Mythily said…
Puriyathe mathiri oru comment ezhuthanumnu enakum asai...
durgawati said…
This comment has been removed by the author.
Crystal.. said…
splendid!
Jeevan said…
You can’t stop flowing even at busy work a lot. Cheers buddy. I really remember me visiting library at school, checking books carefully as some pages are already comes in hand, if we read or not, talk anything unrelated to books :)

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