The Spirit of Borrowed Thoughts
The dust on the shelves stood three inches thick.
Old books were stacked in rows against used brick.
Gold leaf glowed in this musty cellar of words.
At the corner desk, a light hung low, undisturbed.
Linoleum floors swept this museum of thought.
A burial ground for what could never be bought.
Wired glasses rested on the librarian’s deep set eyes.
He moved between centuries of books with deep sighs.
Not a sound could be heard in this theatre of thought.
The government had shut her down, a Word War III fought.
The art hung in gilded frames of historical panoramas.
There is such a fine line between comedy and drama.
Moving through books and fixtures of trees cut down, the
luminous voice of a librarian was heard in this American town.
The clock tower rested in the center of this western city.
As the hour hands pressed into twelve, thoughts rang, bold and witty.
Twice a day the old librarian would move upon solid ground.
His Dewey decimal system would erupt and books moved around.
Books were found in the aisles of the churches and malls.
Everyone knew of this ghost, all creatures large and small.
Dogs would bark as the clock tower found its final marks.
Books opened to pages with book ribbons and comments stark.
In the uncertain times of a city stretching its minds in doubts,
the old library’s ghost made it clear that history never pouts.
Footprints were found in the schools and in the parks.
Naturally, this old fellow had a mission for all to embark.
Threaded in a flag in the center of the town’s hall, was a verse
that the old librarian printed, his noble signature, our human call.
“It is not the skill of the solid mind that gives hope to all mankind.
Within the pages of thoughts and trees is a desire to comfort hearts, to appease.
Countless books and bookmarks of our place is a social condition, a planet’s grace.
The noble spirit must touch what they are to know, to become a garden, a place
where everyone can grow. If we encounter indifference to borrowing each other’s
wits, we become the machines, the counterfeits. Pressed between the pages of God’s
time, are fingerprints, yours and mine. You see, it is between the written lines, where
the truth becomes divine. Do not separate what is yours and mine, return to the museums
of thought and become another’s life line.”
Kathy Paysen 2013