The air is moist with knowledge,
With hundred year old thoughts,
With dreams read and created and
Drunk down in droughts.
An edifice of bindings encase table and chair,
Books barely opened as data flys through the air.
Laptops lie open,
Books lie entombed,
Still few words are spoken
In the gentle quiet of
The third floor reading room.
The ghosts of the past
Give the present a kiss
As I wonder what’s been lost
In our media bliss.
November 25, 2019
Cobbled Together 