Hallowed Halls of Wrinkled Pages

Walking down those hallowed halls,

I can feel the mystery stirring,

In those worn,

And wrinkled pages


I can smell the musty smell

Of ancient and forgotten stories,

Sitting high on their shelves,

Waiting to be rediscovered.


I can hear the whispered words

Of wisdom, anger, and joy,

The words of characters just waiting,

Waiting to tell their story.


And what keeps me going

Is knowing that in just a short walk,

I can be back

In that hallowed hall of wrinkled pages.

The End

1,151 comments about this poem Feed