I had the joy of visiting Tyndale House yesterday and meander through its enchanting library. I could feel the words of the ages trickling down from its shelves as rain pattered outside. It was like walking into a poem! So, naturally, this happened:
No clock ticks
for time has ceased
and yet means everything;
It’s flowers faded
now pressed, relics-
of logos labyrinth.
Beyond, the rain
lost moments counts,
but here the very air
-dusty-
holds its breath,
and slow, exhales,
dead ages still alive.
