Between the Stacks

The scent of old books pulls me in,

as I wander through rows of dust,

each spine a whisper of stories untold,

where silence blooms like a fragile flower,

hovering, waiting for readers to listen.

I find a nook in the library’s heart,

dust motes swirling in sunlight’s embrace,

a bookmark lodged in history's pages,

slightly yellowed, a promise of escape.

Words wrap around me like a warm coat,

each tale beckoning, a friend from the past,

reminding me of times lost in thought,

where imagination painted the walls,

a refuge from the weight of the world,

a secret place where I could always return.