and the room is lit
by the yellowed light
of an ever deepening
afternoon.
I look at the leathery works
of dried musings before me,
the volumes
lined up like grizzled elders
on shelves bent under the weight
of doubt,
hardly daring to run my
clumsy, calloused hands
over them
lest they crumble into dust
under the artless weight
of my half-forgotten
question.
Do they contain
mysteries
and
revelations
and
Everests
of hidden glories,
or are they merely
more of the same
cocksure nonsense
that has led me in
paths grown deep
with the gouges
of my weathered
circular journey?
