The Spine of the World

The stone arches curve like ribs of whales long beached in this ocean of dust, where the ink has surrendered its bite and the parchment turns to pale, thin lace.

Light spills through the high clerestory, a slow, golden cataract that touches the golden-stamped bindings of ghosts who no longer speak in their original tongues.

Here, the spiral staircase is a frozen song, winding toward a ceiling of painted stars now eclipsed by the creeping, grey velvet of spiders who draft their own intricate maps.

Gravity is the only reader left in the aisles, pulling the heavy truth of leather toward the floor, while the wind whistles through broken glass rehearsing the names of gods we forgot to keep.