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