Bookshop in after-hours by Dora Kazmierak www.instagram.com/dorakazmierak/
Slightly-stiffly opens the windowed door,
worn linoleum reveals wooden floor;
tentatively, many enter this old bookshop
on tiptoe, shop near-silent, hear pin-drop.
Quiet most visitors, hush-reverent,
awe for old atmosphere prevalent,
otherworldly this antique atmosphere,
nostalgic scents waft from yesteryear.
Older words uttered, long out of fashion,
pleas preached with purest passion,
authors in white starched collars sigh,
high hoped their visions: what, where, why.
Opulent leather scent, pungent old ink,
rag paper perfume, gilt-edge wink;
books celebrate our very existence,
elicited phrases scored with persistence.
Volumes show bookplates, library stamps,
texts studiously read under varied lamps;
prized books reflect hearts and minds,
esteemed authors heal our brains blind.