I left the salt and spray behind.
A different kind of peace to find.
Below the street where city noise hums.
The quiet of the basement comes.
The ink is dry on yellow sheets.
Away from all the crowded streets.
The air is cool and smells of old glue.
A world of paper, grey and blue.
My flashlight rests upon the stone.
A steady beam to call my own.
It guards the ink and keeps the sight.
A small and silver piece of light.
I used to watch the black sea roll.
The crashing tide would take its toll.
Now I watch the leather spines sleep.
The secrets that the archives keep.
My flashlight rests upon the stone.
A steady beam to call my own.
It guards the ink and keeps the sight.
A small and silver piece of light.
The lens is scratched from winter gales.
Old stories told in shipping scales.
I set it down and close my eyes.
Underneath the city skies.
No flashing beacon in the dark.
No sudden fire, no golden spark.
Just heavy shelves and wooden floors.
And heavy locks on iron doors.
The oil is gone, the wick is spent.
The lonely hours are finally lent.
I lean my back against the wall.
And wait for evening's gentle fall.
My flashlight rests upon the stone.
A steady beam to call my own.
It guards the ink and keeps the sight.
A small and silver piece of light.
Keep the sight.
Just a silver light.
Resting on the stone.
