The Sixth World Librarian

The librarian

Would speak of the library

For life is service.

There are shelves uncounted,

From the bright reaches of known whispers

Gathered in the light of the architrave

To those unanswered murmurs past the threshold

Lurking deep in the void of Um

I know the letters

I see the link

I live through Six

I am so very far from home.

Every entity has a word.

The word is the world

And the world restless, as the words

Creeping into the corners, mites unshelved

Havoc verses versus me.

Verse havoc

And you have a library.

So many half-finished things, strung together when the head tilts just so

And the arcane pours in through the ear.

I feel that, sometimes. Moments captured and attuned

I fear that, sometimes, all else is make-believe.

There are more books than you will ever read, and Six is a very large number.

It is not so wrong to look at a cover, and from that passing glance

Plot the shelf you think it suits, on the gilt of imagined knowledge.

Mortal fallacies

Flavor Eternity

Which is another way of saying;

Get the question wrong once in a while.

For when it comes right, then you’ll know

The story never ends on the first page.

The wisdom of books

Is never concise.

But if there were four windows in the tower of their home,

They would read thus;

To Remember

or Dismember

Demands members

In reading we make council.

Logic is a narrow tool

With which to etch the tree’s passage

through the halls of creation.

Strike deep.

Sight is blurred by eyeing the letter

failing to see the word,

and gaping at shelves

Hides the books.

Focus

Know first

What comes second

To gain initiative on the day

And put the right words at hand.

Know last

First,

And all will knit in ordered motion.

In the tower there is a room,

and in the room there is a man,

who minds no windows

but those upon the shelves.

He is the librarian,

And in his heart,

And up his tower

Is Six