Books silently plea to be read
for what are they,
but the memories of the forgotten dead
those that have been destroyed,
floating for eternity
Ideas, nothing but the shattered pieces of worlds torn apart
rewoven into our art
nothing but lost souls are found
printed in paper
 tightly bound.
So few can hear them
their silent screams
winding, worming, wiggling into our dreams
Books get angry over time.
Lost prose, forgotten rhyme
Days come and days go
time, tossed to and fro
It isn't real
not to the books
They are eternal when left alone
Until a child
comes and looks.
Ink
The blood of books.
Can't you hear it?
Hear their hearts pump, their pages rustle as they're unfurled
Their whispers as they speak their stories, their hearts, their words.
The words that are their souls
Bared for all to see.
The books love us.
By nature they love.
They want to be heard.
Fire.
They could feel it sneaking upon them.
And then it caught.
The books, oh how they would've fought
But their power resides only in their words.
Helpless to the oncoming destruction
It lapped at their paper and caught their ink
The burned paper, ash, flying, like birds
Floating into the sky as the library kept burning
No longer could they think
All there was was the fire
Destroying them
Their words gone, their souls ended.