Scribes

[SplinteredGlass17]

Scribes

Through the claustrophobic corridor
a thousand conversations combine
into one inane, deafening roar.
Along the edge, a figure skirts,
occasionally weaving into the throng.
His spine curves with age,
though he is still but a youth.
The head on his shoulders jerks,
and his lips constantly move
with the babbling of forgotten songs.
In his fragmented mind,
rises the furor of an entire life.
One hundred scribes copy rhymeless verse.
only to set their parchments aflame.
Hidden in the furthest catacombs
lies his most sacrosanct hall.
Where he preserves her divine image.
Through flagellations and bloodlettings
struggling to understand,
only spawning confusion.
Over the things he can feel
but is never able to grasp.