The library is quiet, distant,
binding silence into memories,
barely awake, hidden, helpless,
somnolent, receding from recall
manuscripts under the silver dust.
No, it’s a churning battlefield of blood,
a crashing, exploding, splintering chaos
of shouting and screaming,
of death, destruction, dismay, pain and loss.
Roaring words clash on the edges
of light and dark, of noise and calm,
tumultuous manifestos of jays
Step back into the light,
draw the curtain
past my eyes.
May 2013