An endless library the mind might be,
Limetless knowledge well may it posses,
Not so a place of such tranquility,
Never even once a place of true rest.
A nest of demons reside in the stacks,
Sharpening their claws on the wooden shelves,
Skill'd in subterfuge, with ease hide their tracks
Below consciousness, where surface thought delves.
Tattered pages flutter through quiet aisles,
Air pregnant with waiting and dark intent,
Then sudden hostility and sharp smiles
Where wishes and hopefullness make no dent.
I am lost in the halls of my own mind
And don't want to know what's here to find.

h.f.m.