A room full of words,
Worlds on wooden shelves.
Time withers the spine,
In the temple of the mind.
It is a forest of thought.
Each book a tree, each word a leaf.
Dust separates leaves and reveals
The ink cracks and fades.
The page, once Spring, dimmed to ochre brown.
Structures unveiled in a forest of thought.
“The Forest is a Temple of the Sun!”
Wire twisted into words,
Ghosts against the yellow grass.