Literary

The paper and ink smell that has soaked into the air
Casts a drunken spell on the readers folded between the bookshelves,
Hermits from reality that seek refuge between hardcovers.
These havens are proof of multiple dimensions, separate universes
In every thick stack of paper. These unopened books
That bloom open like chrysanthemums, spines cracking like knuckles
Shimmering black letters that run along the creamy white, the footprints
Of ideas passing through, like deer tracks in fresh snow.
Utter silence fills the room as every one is lost
For words, replacing blood with ink.