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Poem

The bell denotes my presence and I breathe in all the must,
The old man sits amidst his books himself covered in dust.
I glance around -
	Without a sound -
		What will my hunting eyes expound?

My favourite place to visit full of wonders and old writing,
Such stories do they tell to me, before you even crack the binding.
A missing page -
	Gold words engraved -
		Intriguing, so I must engage.

I find the little hidey hole, past modern paperbacks,
An antique chair to sit and stare at what today’s world lacks.
A sense of style -
	In rustic guile -
		Enchants even the smallest child.

I run my hand along the row of books with golden lettering,
Experiencing all their worth, regretting what we’re forgetting.
They are our last -
	Ancestral past -
		They speak to us in volumes, vast.

They call to us from history and they ask us to remember,
Before they too become extinct, they are a dying ember.
Our legacy -
	Technology -
		Where knowledge waits on scratched CDs.

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