They say nobody reads anymore,
so they’ve hammered wooden boards into library windows
and they’ve built each book a coffin from the outside,
but the inside is a body,
with infinite hearts and infinite souls
more intelligent than we could hope to become,
it’s walls lined with knowledge
with verse and prose that a child could once recite,
balancing on tiptoes
she skimmed a delicate hand over every unexplored title
and vowed to stay up past bedtime,
the words illuminated by torch light, the best way she knew how.
But centuries of dipping a quill into ink by candlelight
all turned to dust- nobody reads anymore.
It was a rite of passage,
obeying a vow of silence, filled with the voice of a story-
words from a page surrounded her,
from head to toe immersed, on page one
for the minute it takes for her to decide to give this world a chance,
again and again,
she placed a certain faith in every author
until she couldn’t see over the pile she shouldered.
But, nobody reads anymore
and in her lifetime they’ve diluted education and killed creativity,
they’ve told us the world is black and white
so they’ve boarded up the library windows
and refused to let us colour it in.