The Bookstore

The sign grabbed my attention and would not let go.
Books. Used. New. Rare. Buying. Selling.
Scratched in paint, a neat white column of letters
That draws me down into the undercroft.
Inside I find a man who appears even older than his wares
Squinting at the world through gold spectacles.
The musty smell of old dust jackets, leather, yellowing pages
Fills the cramped spaces between towering shelves.
My spirit soars through this place of a thousand stories.
‘Tell me of the wonders here. What magic do you sell?
‘Where will these pages take me? What worlds might I find within?
What works of love and anger live and breathe upon your shelves?’
He is silent a long while before he answers.
‘I have a million thoughts for sale
‘Ink running through paper veins and threaded spines
‘Here you will find no magic beyond your own.
‘Here are words on dead pages
‘That wait for you to infuse them with life.’

Photo by Juan Pablo Arenas on Pexels

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