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.