poem15 Jun 2020 08:38 am
Daniel Ausema
The architecture in the library of whispers holds onto every breath half spoken, records them in its own flourishes and whimsies. The shelves hum with sighs and insinuations, and innuendos flutter among the rafters On lonely days patrons follow the wafting memory of a loved one’s words among the stacks, tracking its position by a decimal system built on scent. Once found, the whisper expands, surrounds the patron, the shelves, the world, granting the aural bones for life to flesh out. On tense days, officials come to track down scarcely-spoken sedition and clues to ancient crimes. Only by luck do they find either The gothic waterspouts outside spill their secrets only when it rains but are said to hold the oldest and least understood of the library’s mysteries.
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