Nine muses attend the burning
of creation. Sing they.
Songs of sadness. Flames
fill the night.
Smoke carries the knowledge of Ptolemy across the sky.
from Caesar’s burning fleet*
ignites the home of Euclid and Heron.
Words that knew the world reduced to embers.
*one of several explanations for the cause
of the fire.
You are a mystery. A riddle without an answer.
A tounge twister I can't wrap my sense around.
I would never find the answers in between your lines.
If you were a library I could never read everybook.
Not even if I could live forever.
Not even if your library would let me in.
And yet, on the cold ground I wait. My body caves in on itself, shrinking under the shadow casts by your walls.
Your fortress. Your empire. Your kingdom.
You are everything that I love and yet I am exiled.
Your name would hang above the doors in gold, glittering like the ice crystals freezing my shattered heart together.
But here I wait. And here I'd still wait.
Even after I'd gone blind, or forgotten how to read.
Because if your library ever let me in, there is no sweeter smell than old books.
I walked into life's library to seek perhaps adventures there.
Not really knowing what I sought my expectations unaware.
I looked first at the non-fiction upon shelves marked clearly with tape.
The more I looked yet did I realize it was from that I sought escape.
I chanced upon a section where great imagined dramas did abound.
Where mystic stories and strange creatures on the pages could be found.
Caught briefly by the imagined on the pages with heroes deeds upon.
I realized all was fantasy so through the pathway of books I ventured on.
Time passed as it tends by some scale that seemed so erratic in its flow.
As shelves and stories passed me by along the route I chose to go.
I came then to a section with a long queue of people standing there.
Patiently in their place and each with determined and focused stare.
What was it that drew them and caused this lengthened line?
Their looks suggested that the need, was very much like mine.
I had passed so many shelves with random people here and there.
But no other shelf or section for which this queue I could compare.
Through strong and strange compulsion I resolved to take my chance.
To join the much sought after line toward the shelf of "Love and Romance".
If only it were a book on a shelf....
So many books.... but each only works if there is both writer and reader.
We all seek to write and be read and so be a story shared.
Held trapped in bones
And nameless to educate
Surely, though our story is to be found amongst the rooms and walls and shelves within the library of Babel...
Each letter perfectly paired to the next, and every space in its rightful place.
Periods and commas punctuating every moment exactly as they should.
...That room has yet to be illuminated, The walls therein unseen, It’s shelves have been left unenumerated.
And the book is yet unnamed...
Lost is the certainty,
the written account,
existing within the infinite possibilities of algorithmic and mathematical clout.
...Leaving us to marvel and worry only armed with faith and good reason, through all of life’s seasons and its many unmeasurable miserable doubts.
Kinda at a crossroads with relationships and work... I found a website called the library of Babel where a guy basically came up with a way to get every possible combination of the 26 letters in the English language, plus periods, commas and space. Making it possible to find a perfect written account of your birth/life/death and everything in between... if you just knew the location within its infinite volumes of seemingly endless babble.
We hold onto
A library of past memories
Like they're the last breaths of the earth
But darling don't you worry
I write so that our story
Will forever live on in these words
I went to the library
and gathered flowers from its garden
to leave in the cement vases
of forgotten soldiers monuments
that they keep
in their front yard.
in that moment,
i felt alive.
it was raining.
i wish it would keep raining.
I am the element of storm.
peonies make me happy
I saw you today
it had been so long
Too long? Who knows
Our eyes caught
Spinning an eternity
You nodded, I think
I'm not sure if I nodded back
but who knows
Libraries are romantic
They are piles and shelves of words of love
Stacks full of secrets
a kiss discretely
Could we have been that kiss, those hands?
maybe, but who knows
I have written your name so many times
Scratched you out until you are, were
nothing but words and hopeless yearning
and yet now, here you are
With your nod
an eternity between us
by the books
I still have to shelve