Deep within another realm,
Where only gods have safely ventured,
There exists a fabled library-
But only one has ever entered.
This privilege goes to a special man
Whose years will never be known,
As he sits at an oaken table;
Hidden within the dusty tomes.
His hair is a golden blonde
Mussed with the tightest of curls,
And his lips are curved in a smile,
Showing teeth white as pearls.
And in his eyes are shining stars
That rest there juxtaposed.
Twin pools of silver mercury,
Always half-lidded, half closed.
But while his face appears with youth
Most would be shocked, to say,
That his hands are lined with wrinkles-
A testament to eternal age.
So here he sits alone,
And forever here he writes.
His mind is never tiring-
Even in the darkest of nights.
And with each book he has finished,
And the story they do tell,
Not an error has been made-
Never a rewrite or mis-spell.
For the tales that he writes
Are writ in ink of gold,
And speak of every person, every life-
And their futures yet foretold.
Complete, the book is shelved
With another infinity or so.
One more down, he muses:
Only forever left to go...