At once a shopfront, but also a cavernous labyrinth of lost words,
An old grey proprietor rubs their hands, anticipating the sale of some forgotten tome.
Deeper the explorer ventures, and the dust covered bookshelves grow dimmer,
The adventurer’s mind buzzes with the sheer wealth of knowledge in one place,
Pressed together in unorganised manner, his predetermined targets are instantly erased,
If asked his own name now, he would not remember it amongst his sensory overload.
Books lay stacked out of order, poetry mixed with dictionaries and the Bards plays,
He clears room one, nothing found, before delving into forgotten fictions, the light dims,
He can hear the proprietor discussing mushrooms, bread and eggs for supper,
As he pushes past the Dickens he owns, sadly stacked amongst the Dumas Musketeers,
He came for Keats, for Shelley or Poe, but his head swims as old dust invades his senses,
Suddenly, one blue book here, Burns, and a green there, Donne, treasure found within chaos,
He makes the journey back before he gets in too deep, back to the proprietor’s hungry eyes,
A deal is struck, and he manages to escape back into the bright sunlight he left behind.
He’ll be back, the proprietor grins knowingly.
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Dan Verkys 