Silent Philosophies

This room is small and
lined with shelves, where.
crowded, books on books
are stacked floor to ceiling.

A man is here. I sit and watch
as, while quietly reading, he
swings his foot. Back and forth.

Drumming fingers.

I sit...and sit...and sit.
Watching dirty sunlight creeping
through suffocating cloud and
ancient glass, catching falling dust
and floating
forgotton
philosophies.

Silent-ish air fills my lungs,
I breathe and taste, vaguely, paper
at the back of my throat.
Voices, seep through walls, dripping
puddles of poems and laughter
into this silence.

I hear a sigh, look up and
see the man has moved.
He stands, "hmmmmmms" and
stretches. Seeming to fill the
room from floor to ceiling.

Suited but not smart,
Faded brown cord, once-white
shirt. Decaying slowly, part of
this room. He belongs.

A nail upon teeth, tapping, thoughtfully
reaching for a book, hesitating. Fingers
linger over first choice, then the second,
torn between the two, then lifting
both from the shelf.

He places them gently, lovingly, on the
desk before him. They are old, worn,
well used. His fingers caressing the
ready to crumble leather.

He opens one slowly, gently... and in
the silence I hear the pages creak.
Sitting slowly, reading once more
I watch.

He himself it like a book,
Lines etched upon his face read
Experience, knowledge, love, wisdom,

And Time is his author.