The Bookshop

 

Walking on squeaky floorboards

Occupying space

Previously walked

At a nurtured pace.

 

How much time

Have people taken

To scan the walls

And see the books?

 

The smell of written beauty

In a time of pixels

Smell the pages

Of history.

 

Looking through

Piles of literary minds

Looking for that goldmine.

That transports and enthrals. 

 

That feels like substance

And shouts reality.

The holy pages

Carefully turned.

 

Where are these 

emporiums going?

These holy places

Of the word.

 

Taken to screens

That scream loss.

And leave textureless

Tiredness on broken eyes.