This Library

Quiet still pages, 

and stained bookshelves, unswaying, stand like towers.

This library was built on clay and soul and on the backs

of people with pens that have come before us. 

People with ideas, who wanted to share those ideas. 

People with pens who had a song in their stomachs and a voice in their throats. 

People with pens and caffeine and a spark. 

This library rises from a shallow swamp of want, 

and stands, like the bookshelves, as a guardian of

Some nights after dinner, I come here and drone on a keyboard, 

or I search for books I've dreamt of. 

This place is a temple for us who need solid ground,

who need an idea to drown in,

who need space and air and words.

My favorite type of sanctuary is filled with books.