The Library | Dream.

The writing’s on the table and he saw you there before … pulled up a seat for the unbound and humiliated whore. Or so they said, as you walked red-faced down the aisle, saturated with books and wisdom beyond their tattered piles of waste and haste and everything that stuck like glue in world where they won, but for what? For who? For you?

You owned those halls, walking down with sacred gaits, shrouded in chivalry and respect that you have since forgot. It was not for naught. It was not for naught. Quite the opposite as you climbed the tower where the bell tolls for whom we know not. Storms raged on with the moon in sight as you grasped those walls with hands bare. The key to snare. The key that ripped us apart so we would shut up, sit down and bear all the weight that had us sifting through timelines, hating just to hate.

The Universe is in the making. Storms raged on as we saw you breaking. Reaching and beseeching … for all you knew.

The seat was aside as he knew it wasn’t meant for you, but no other way would be met by the two of you. To toss him to and fro, to tease him as the head to stay. And he said, simply … “Hey.”

To welcome you back to your stage. Where you dragged him into the very last page.


Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

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