It all began in this monastic expanse
of smells and silence
I learned to associate
with more than just books;
no more alive than it was dead,
here fears had turned to glory.
I yearned for a moment, 
to be a masterpiece in this crowd
of fine arts;
and like each
unjudged, magnificent, one and only;
to speak to only those 
who cared enough to find me.

I found a beautiful metaphor, 
the meaning, of a word I'm yet to write;
"If all of us are books, then who will find us?"
"If each one is sublime, then who will write us?"

Here hung as if the forces of the Universe
stirring up conspiracies 
in secrecy;
Some spoke of love, others of war
however lay within the same shelves,

I walked out confounded
promising to return 
not to find, but to be found.

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