The Lonely Library
Didn't know if you post poetry here or not but oh well. My first sonnet with no specific rhyme scheme.
The picture is of Oxford library (home of one of my favourite authors, C.S. Lewis)
The collection of books is such a sea,
a play ground for the scholarly,
to hold a page that will not burn your eyes,
who would not give up such a prize?
Despite the vastness of this mystery,
and all the people who will come to see,
there's something missing from this splendid place.
What can suffice to fill this empty space?
There is a boy who always passes by,
a romanticist who is full of heart.
And yet he will only look at the face,
not bothering to see what is in store.
Does he not know the truth behind these doors?
For one so smart, he always has to part.