Books
Walking on squeaky floorboards
Occupying space
Previously walked
At a nurtured pace.
How much time
Have people taken
To scan the walls
And see the books?
The smell of written beauty
In a time of pixels
Smell the pages
Of history.
Looking through
Piles of literary minds
Looking for that goldmine.
That transports and enthrals.
That feels like substance
And shouts reality.
The holy pages
Carefully turned.
Where are these
emporiums going?
These holy places
Of the word.
Taken to screens
That scream loss.
And leave textureless
Tiredness on broken eyes.