The Bibliotheca

Poet: Pritisha

Row after row of crisply ordered books with their edges facing outwards

I see the cracked ceiling, dirtied shelves, and dusty cupboards.

The book covers creak, pages crumble.

I stand here at a forty-five-degree angle

in the oldest library because life is a scholarly work

and all I need is a bibliography of life, to fight all the havoc

I am yet to face. I’d be better off if I landed its handbook.

I crave to stay prepared because I don’t want to depend on a mere fluke.

I’d expect the worst in order to stay prepared,

I’d pre-prepare a contingency plan beforehand.

Glass half full or glass half empty, whichever way you may look at it,

all I see is I have to top it up with enough liquid.

Maybe I am structured this way because life’s a cacophony,

and everything goes wrong in monotony.

I keep getting bamboozled by life

it is probably damned strife.

As I stand in this library, I see a book of my life

with creased ends and worn-out pages

I crush it

I crunch it

I scrunch it

like it is bad luck waiting to be slaughtered.

I strangle it to satisfy my bloodlust.

Now, I don’t have a book of my life

but I am the author

and I can always write another book.

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