Bless this dusty bookcase
Where they prey
And lie in waiting;
Bound in pages brown
and fading. Fed off tremors
Echoed from the desperate hand
That made them.

Bless the poem that's forsaken
By the tongue that begs to taste
Words written for false promises--
Dipped in cedar, dripping rhythm--
Unfurled to breathe florescent lighting
Of a library that's spent decades
Searching for a new way to say forgotten.

Heirloomed ink is grave-worm risen.
Bless this second coming
But expect to find no Mesiah here.