So Much Ink
The lib’ries of my childhood mind
Were dark and ancient rooms,
Where vaults of pages whispered
In their literary tombs,
And candlelights cast shadows
In the labyrinth of glooms,
As the monks, all dressed in brown,
Chained their precious volumes down.
The lib’ries of my childhood days
Were dull and grimly quaint,
Where silence wasn’t reverence
But boredom and restraint,
With long, prosaic rows of spines
With no allure or taint,
As the staff, all dressed in beige,
Locked away each racy page.
The lib’ries of my adulthood
Are not as deeply hewn –
They aren’t a gothic paradise
Or brutalist cocoon,
But just an easy place to spend
A rainy afternoon,
With a book about the secret lore
Behind the bookshelves’ hidden door.
Rhyming Couplets 