The smell of aged paper
Like dust, but sweet
The scent of memory
The cloth on the spines
Red or green or blue, now faded
The crumbling bindings
The sound of old music
-Is it Mozart, or Vivaldi?-
And sneakers on the hollow wood floor
The ghosts that dwell here never lived
Except in the dreams of their creators
And minds of their readers
This is the place
Where Imagination
Becomes real
1 comment:
Ah, the sound of sneakers on old polished wood floors.
**skweeking**
Yeah, I like a good old bookstore.
Found you courtesy of Keith's blog, of course...keep on posting!
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