Sits there, a once great pillar
of family and society,
bereft of bookend ears,
turning memories like pages,
the smoke of residual synapses

puffs ancient from hickory bowl.

A wispiness of moss hangs
from a weathered oaken face
chiselled from bibliography hunts,
journeys through the tomes of choice,
one can read this book by it's cover,
yet not read the mind of time.

In the annals of the heart,
a light glows still
through a sailing ships window,
on a world that marvels
at the knowledge that dwells within,
age shall not wary him, nor silverfish.