Another one:

The Bookshop

Let us savor the cumulative silence,
Crooked fingers turning yellowed pages.
The words encircle us in a vintage fugue.
Let us enchant ourselves with these spines,
A row of moribund works which project
Their infinite mind into a future only dust shall witness.

Dust tomes, abiding in morose sepulchers.
A plaque engraved with the titles of the deceased.
Bookended, nestled in this quiet corner,
The moribund are immortal, infused
In the vitriolic ink of austere intent.

Now come with me, surrender to remembrance.
Let us delve into the realms of the forgotten,
To beget a bright tomorrow from yesterday's ashes.

The enigmatic whispers that curl 'round the brocade.
There, the esoteric verses - like dust motes -
Suspended in the western sun, that shines
Its pallid beam 'cross the indexed obsolescence.

The cracked spine, bound in sensual concupiscence,
Where the shadows dance in crimson leaps,
Rejoicing in secrets shrouded in lost tongues.
We, the silent invaders of parched wisdom,
Quill abstained, pitifully estranged,
Shall behold the grand parade of transient thoughts.

The Redeeming Word

The man behind the counter, a Sibyl of sorts,
Inspires wonder with a toothy smile,
His furrowed brow etched with the knowledge of
A thousand stories that never meet the light.

Beside the register, the clock stands still,
Its gilded hands forever arrested in a futile plea.
A pantheon of eras trip in unison,
Leaving past and present intermingling,
Dancing in a whirlwind of wisdom's ghosts.

We find solace in the tomes that line these walls,
Like cobwebs spun from intellect and dreams.
Bound by leathered spines and fading ink -
The humble shrine - a symphony of silence.

Transcendence awaits upon the consuming page,
Craving to lock its gaze upon our soul.
We take the plunge into the vast abyss,
Suspended in a dense sea woven of words
That twist and dance like serpents, unbeknown.

And there! A wounded phrase, cradled in neglect -
Winking through vestiges of forgotten joy.
Teetering on the precipice, a chance,
To exhale redemption in the echoes of time.

The Epilogue

Here we are - entombed in this quiet
sanctum, a cathedral of bound brilliance,
Communing with sages and dreamers alike,
Their voices weaving harmonies in the deep,
A tapestry of tales transcending time's line.

The tick-tock lull of a drowsy chronograph
Mocks our race to ingest the feeding, fading word.
The sun lowers its gaze upon the impotent hour,
Chasing, choosing, our final reverie.

Reticence resounds, a melancholy lilt,
Illuminating darkness undeterred.
Words wither and seep into hollow minds,
Yet endure, emboldened in textured grace.

Fingers linger, a sweet caress, farewell,
To the sheathed knowledge soft against our touch.
In this hallowed haven of whispering pages,
The tomorrows are sanctified and summoned.

Let the veneration of language endure,
The living and the dead, entwined in print.
Our keen ambition in pursuit of truth,
Stirs the relentless hand of time to still,
Till the bookshop's hallowed doors meet again.