The Library of The Mind
The ghost of the library
stays after, as the gathering ends,
reading in silent rows.
It hides in the corner, away from walls,
then the clock ticks in rhythm.
The ghost comes to life.
It stays alive till morning rays,
then fades as soon as light flicks—
when the locked doors
unlock in time,
and the gathering of thoughts
crowds the books.
This mind of mine,
just a maze of books,
coexists with lingering thoughts,
this gathering of ghosts.
At night it reads my heart,
ponders over judgmental notes,
Discuss matters haunted for days,
Let it go after unanimous votes,
drowns deep in grudging wine,
and reads too much between the lines.
With morning shine,
dullness covers the racks,
turning pages in books
and rewriting the tales.
The same old voice
with a blade of opinion,
the subtle forcing of
their ultimate vision.
They change the covers
from rainbow to grey,
and close the cabinet
of my favorite tales.
They write with absolute zeal,
as if words of mine hold no will.
But I like to write and think out loud,
noting the points that come to mind,
sharing my voice,
And hear them echo.
Look at them,
the ones placed on rack '0'—
for '0' is the One who stands by me,
on late nights inside the library.
Holding the lamp till I finish my book,
encouraging me when others mock.