An ancient tome closes somewhere,
A cough, maybe years old, reaches my ears
Laughter at the door and hands on glass,
As the door opens and they step out.
A hammering of stamping upon the pulp
A creak of spines and crack of knuckles
Scratching pencil lead shrinks upon a page
While somewhere a mind screams in sighs
And fingers knot up in slightly grayer hair,
And a hiss comes from the sliding glasses.
Cars are whispering in the wind outside.
One light above me is forgetting lines
And stammering out the hummed lullaby
That the others already know by heart.
In the distance, someone uses precious air
Does not speak it, but lets it fly through teeth
As someone picks up the wind and carries it
Silently through his thoughts and out again.