Library.

The air is quiet, deathly quiet.
The books sit lined up there
in neat little rows.
Lonely, cold, and silent.

The walls are white, deathly white.
A sterilized prison,
For the thoughts that writers chose to write.
Lonely, cold, and silent.

These were meant to be read!
They were meant to bring a smile.
But I guess we have new things now,
to demand our attention, our hearts for awhile.

Who needs these yellowing pages,
Upon which are written the very souls of men?
Men with ideas, men with a story,
Men who just want to make you laugh awhile.

Oh well, let the past be silent.
We don't need the love of Romeo, beautiful in its tragedy.
And we don't need the story of Ulysses passionate, love driven journey.
We have our own words.