The Room of Books Waits

The room of books waits Waits for a finger that gropes Waits for a voracious mind Waits for a tipping strum A stroke of finesse A feather of dust. Principles, recondite Particles will ignite Growing with no motion Acting with no motive Like giants they step All humble, alone in their fastness Within the litany of words, recondite. Appeals, cry hunger Feed me! Feed the masses! Break the moors Unleash the ship to sail Over turbulent water Seeking shores Revel in the seamless wasteland The wooded hill, the land The desert of dry crops The feast of wolves That devour the marrow Chew the dry bones Bleached bones, sad And roaches explore: They enter the dry skulls They are hunting, evermore.