Under the wooden beams,
My quivering fingers dancing on the keyboard,
Its soft grip fragile, compounded.
The sound resonating
Across the verge of the table,
Sinking slowly in a circuit,
Punching seamless letters on the screen.
The books speak to me
But I don't hear.
Its words oozing out the page,
Begging to be read
In horrid silence.
A silence so bitter and loud,
A choiring quiver of voices
Landing on each surface,
Bouncing off into the unknown, light abyss
Of the third floor.
The lights flicker,
The books remain printed.
An eyeful of piercing moments
Unhinge the flow.
