The Archives

I know it is right
but I don't know why,
something about
a rule of resistence,
stiffened spine.
Old wive's tales and
fables come to mind,
images of kettles
hanging over orange
hearths with
peasants sitting around
them in the dust.
Where does right come from?
I know it's right
to sigh and pull away,
to let out breath just
at the climax
of my raised sword.
Images of old books,
rarely opened and
filled with spider silk,
images of odd men
who live in stone cells
and don't care
about sunshine.