The Elderly Bibliophile

He never returned without a book

a newfound treasure, tucked under his arm

until he could not pay the rent

and had to sell them, one by one

each volume, old and leather-bound

for food, his newfound plague.

 

He never returned without a sou

from selling his tomes so dearly loved

but seemed to wither, stripped of life

as fortune stripped him of his words.

The faded print he held so dear

that meaning seemed to die.

 

He never returned from whence he came

the house with payment overdue

but stood instead to wave the flag

of men e’er doomed to martyrdom.

He took his senile stance with pride

the only chapter left to him.

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