“I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library”
– Jorge Luis Borges
Shards of light
through dust particles
flicker like fireflies
dancing through dim-lit rooms
in unpredictable flight patterns.
The yellow sun of noontime
shakes off its rays
across the spines
of yellowed and crackling books,
abandoned to time’s hands.
The air is stale-sweet,
the musty heaviness of sweating books
mixing with the scents of vanilla
that linger among the pages like memories.
Shelves born mahogany
have washed themselves
with the soft-bleaching sunshine
of many forgotten years
and lines of paleness have been etched
across shelf and book alike
at the angle of sunlight
to mark time’s passing.
My fingers trace this discoloration
from book to book
towards the small window
as my eyes slow-adjust to the dim light
and the ghosts that float around me.
I must be the first visitor
my mere presence mixing up the dust
as I crack open a random book
to its first page.
There is no one here but me
and all of human history,
bound in fraying spines and crackling covers.
The solitude feels almost like how
I would imagine paradise.
For Eugi’s Weekly Prompt, we are asked to craft a poem from the following prompt:
sun kissed paradise
ours is a world of our own