Often confusing

Library.

A million stories ended todays,
A million more tomorrow.
Libraries we breathe to death,
Stories of our sorrows.
The burning pages patch the sky,
Drifting ash raining ink into our eyes.
Blotting our pages with worlds anew.
We feel their pain, and their solitude.
A book is worth a thousand pictures,
But those pictures only take you so far.
These great sheaves carved from our souls can't,
Show us what was torn apart.
And when too we burn will our ashes scatter,
Or just lie embedded still.
The former a life to remember yes,
But the latter little harm and toil.
Is it worth living to brand the future,
In pain glory sought.
But if pain was never wrought,
Then in empty shelves: the world will rot.
Worth is the question, worth of ourselves,
Is it worth the pain of tearing apart?
New borne ashes to dip our quills in,
And give the future a new start.
Maybe so, maybe not,
I am but a leather bound seal.
Jotting down the tears I see,
Until I burst at the seams.
And maybe then will I be ink anew,
Not painful but just deep.
Seeping across the cobbled halls,
Of the library: our world's keep.