The stacks of books are silent now,

 as I walk through with jaded eye.

Where are your shouts of yesterday,

 as you called out when first I came.

To tell me of all the blood and gore,

 of which I relish, yet still abhor.

You told me of conflict when families meet

Sometimes even murder so very sweet.

But silent as death you are today,

  and I as well, have nothing to say.

For Poetry 101 Rehab:  Stacks