Stone Cold

Walked into the library today,

the old one, built of serious stone.

And there it was, that familiar gray

chill, down to the marrow and bone.

Not warm, not like a home, no heat

from bodies, just a deep, slow seep

of cold, from ceiling to my feet.

A quiet promise it would keep.

It smelled like old books, dust, and rain,

and something else, a damp, clean air.

Like history, a silent pain.

The breath of something always there,

but never held. Just in the air.

A sacred cold. Too much to bear.