With stories for a pillow for her head

The heavy scent of vellum, dust, and time,A weary mind has paused mid-sentence, deep;Between the prose of prose and ancient rhyme,She’s wandered through the gateway into sleep.The stone-cold eyes of statues watch her rest,As golden light spills soft across her brow;A thousand secrets held within her chest,She’s silent as the ink-stained pages now.The library, a labyrinth of thought,Has tangled her within its paper vines;A wisdom sought, a battle quietly fought,Lost in the spaces between faded lines.No longer does she chase the hidden truth,Or search for answers in a crumbling tomb;The fleeting, restless fever of her youth,Is tethered to the silence of this room.So let her dream where ancient spirits tread,Where every word is golden, soft, and deep;With stories for a pillow for her head,And all the world’s great wonders in her keep.