The Library

I came in quest of an exit sign
from my head’s maze,
some place that would stop the confusion
and purge me of those fun house mirrors
which I saw as my true face.

Convinced safety would be found
among the pillars of wisdom,
their silver sheen would shined inside
cleanse the sickness that sunk me into crevices,
sullen and saturated in shattered serenity.

Scrolls the sagacious scribe unfurled before my eyes,
they stretched a myriad of messages before my view,
each a promised paradise where I would discover
the slumbering scholar that slept in my brain.

It drove me in a ravenous pace
to taste each lair of ambrosia,
such succulent morsels of sweet mind pastries,
convinced with enough consumption
that it would fill the holes in my heart
until my blood could fuel my eyes
and they could see the person I never undestood.

But once I had devoured my portion
within I still found myself,
just a shell without any genuine identity.

Was in that emptiness I recalled
how in the quiet of my labyrinth
I could truly hear my own voice,
which sang a song uncluttered by facts
that hadn’t define me as well
as the notes I had known all my life.

Now I sit in this morgue of books,
tomes that brought light, but no fire,
waiting for a library card to my diary
containing the biography that is the real me.