Tomes

They stand in hushed rows at attention,
spines straight, keeping their leaves tucked tight
between covers—some bruised, some wounded
here, an amputated afterword, there, a new recruit
smelling of paper, ink, and binding. Most were drafted
by an author who has long since set aside his quill,
extinguished his candle, and slept without waking.

Many have not seen action for years, for decades.
All around, the library is filled with a quiet warfare
of silent knowledge held fast
against the darkness of an empty carrel,
uncaring world. Each soldier guards the voices
of the dead, and in their purple hearts
beats the ancient rhythm of poets and sages past.

-Elizabeth