In the farthest corner,
where the air is thick with dust,
lies the ancient catacombs,
where books decay on wooden shelves,
tired spines with cracked leather covers,
and once-gold lettering
blackened with time.
Beneath a background buzz of fluorescent lights,
forgotten ink expounds long-disproven theories,
margins marked by curious hands
that once craved understanding.
I lose myself among ruins of bygone discoveries,
where Maxwell’s pen once conjured cosmic storms,
electric arcs and magnetic fields danced
in radiant ballet, a universe unwrapped in shimmering light.
Nature’s hidden script brought boldly alive,
in brittle pages of theories and equations
that still hold true, enabling technology
Maxwell never dreamed.
I sit among the stacks,
thumbing through yellowed pages,
touching the spirit of invention,
giving breath to a past that still lingers,
among guardians of knowledge lost to neglect,
holding secrets like sealed jars
in a dark place no one ever dares to go.
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