So seductively, books piled up sky high to the ceiling,
it being the only cause for their ascending limitation.
Methodically placed and balanced just so each one acting,
as the cornerstone of its strikingly sturdy foundation.
The unmistakable specific smell of old paper and leather,
in a strange unpredictable way brings welling to my eyes,
flooding in had come the memories of being a volunteer
at my township local library, when I was a youth, arise.
Dreaming of then, a simpler time I reminisce and recall
spending my summer afternoons there with my cousin,
I am suddenly washed over with confusion, wondering
how can such an innocent time in life, now seems so sullen?
As the room gets colder it starts to appear much darker
the light that had sparkled in my mind begins to smolder,
the depths of my self-hating uninvited friend depression
interrupted by the used bookstore owners tap on my shoulder.