The Book Keeper Poem by Christian Allen

The Book Keeper, smells of ashes and cherry wood,
Of pipes and tinder, and of things ancient and grey.
His beard is a forest, of thick white hair,
Even it has seen things, that I haven’t.

The Book Keeper, with eyes of amber,
Knows what to say when I am lost, he knows.
The Book Keeper, I hear, never says where he’s from.
But I will know, when he speaks to me, tonight, I will know.

The Book Keeper, loves his books, as his children.
With the utmost kindness, he sorts them, again, and again.
He cleans them, studies them, comforts them, again, again.
Book Keeper, I know where you’re from.
From the ancient ways of tangibles, time and love.