She Walks Among Books As If They Are Flowers

She walks among books as if they are flowers – Picking the dust from their parched leaves like the busy bumblebee seeking for pollen. Breathless – She caress the patchy pages to feel their scent – her favored perfume, and the texture of their numbered petals. She hears the song – The Silence- with glee, evading the moonlight in her daily course – No bird sings in her hallowed garden. No poets praise her unchanging beauty – but all poems she takes to herself, reigning lonely and terrible in her Helicon. She is never lost but she never leaves – Nor greets any visitor with her pale hello, absently wandering near her chilly stroke. The seedbed is sterile, yet she still rejoices – Winter never leaves, Winter never arrives, her flowers still colorful as they never were. She dances – her feet barely touch the ground, serene –never closing her eyes – not once, her fortune clasped closely to her still chest. As a confined moth wriggling her wings in a fray - restless – she unfolds her arms and gazes mirrors incapable to reflect her own pale face. She walks among books as if they are flowers – Flipping their pages without rest, without break, in deadly splendor after every lonely midnight.