Of twilight's garden

To the garden upon what it hold

Among the leaves of books

Held by shelves of the tree trunks

Stretch long into the halls

Of Twilight's garden

She made her way towards

Leaving behind many

Yet gaining the same few

As of late weary days

That stretch time afar

And it goes on

The same as we do

Dreariness takes hold

Upon those who leave

Even as trivial as it seems.

The distance still gets created

The space between others

And us

Enough of a void

To fill it of the sense of not belonging

As she moved

Seeing the world behind

Hoped for the new

As a reminder for what she left

Into the world she stepped

Different from the last

In each way,

More beautiful, or worse

The garden stretched on

to the imposingly long end

That filled with infinite

or it seems so

The books craved

Each into a way

One only its own

Of rich, ornate beauty

Some,

Bright as the golden corn

flourished among the flowers

roses, lilies and dandelions

But with a thousands

That span across the wall

The impossibility

Of individuality seems diminished

Yet it was not

With the glance

None was the same

Nor it's content shall

While the world she stood in

Was so unknown

It was filled with possibility

Of a million million endings

A challenge of endings

Many refuse

To dare attempt

Afraid of their failure

A few dare

Yet with a fear

Of what to happen

Of what is to come

She will

For each was a path

To be trotted along

Even there was none

And she begun

Her very journey

Of a never ending

World of books

Of the thousand books

She lay in each of them

Each in their arms

Warm and rhythmic

There abodes she stayed

As guest

As each told her

Of their tale

Of which some

Broke her heart

Riddled her

With undecipherable sadness

Some

Brought tears

Of joy

Of laughter

Just as many

Brought knowledge

And showed

All they did

And so she watched

Each one that they came

Listened

And took in

With each day

She walked in their shoes

Gave a day of hers

For their small lives

Went on

Spending her days

On each book

As of no end