A Night in Valhalla

In catacombs,

ancient tombs crumble and decay.

Yet with no price to pay,

they shall be loaned.

To humble patrons with forms relayed.

If you pursue these shelves of dust.

Your senses should be stricken with lust.

Like a roast on the stove,

which pleases the nose.

This shall enlighten your sensation,

until sation is known.

Each isle, its own flavor,

exotic spices to savor.

Observed with your neighbor,

to borrow, not own.

The voyage has began,

in record files that extend,

from vile and benign to beginning and end.

And as you diligently study this law,

delightful odors engage your craw.

Oh glue and synthetics!

Ink, and rhetoric.

As a child is known to consume paste,

delectable scents waft over your face.

Yet if this seems too tangy and tart,

perhaps legends, or fine art.

Then ascent to non-fiction!

Or fiction,

this diction covers what's true and absurd.

The aroma is softer, smoother yet bolder.

These chronicles; newer and older,

smell of leathers, parchment and sweat.

To fevered minds, periodicals lent.

Knowledge sent, to a brave one’s home.

If you dare, secure a chair of your own.

Then feed hungry eyes, the lines of unknown.

In this castle of paper and tone,

the face of the future has a place of it’s own.

There are beasts and birds to enlighten the mind.

Rows of fables, appropriate to time.

Exquisite fingers flick through the rows,

colors like vibrant young flowers explode.

This corner of youth pleases the brain.

If your hands are sticky, you may be restrained.

A colorful bouquet, which perplex the mind.

Paper, candy and fruit turned to wine.

Plastic encases many a tail.

If the ending is scary, try not to wail.

Our senses bamboozled,

as stampeded by oodles,

of excited young guns,

us giants, out done.

Tho as keepers of time, we must soon away,

to carry on the duties of night or the day.

Inside these vaults no one resides,

except decrepit old jesters, and masters,

lovingly,

kept alive.