This Yellowed Old Tome

It sits on a shelf, not quite by itself Leaning on another, bored by the other Waiting to be picked, waiting To be held It sits in the gloom, of a dusty room Filled with motes and lost notes Tomes that have gone home Others that wished they had It sits where it has sat High on a shelf Through two World Wars A library in pause You can see it through a window A monograph in the murk The work of an author long dead Stories once read From this bound book of poems Stories once told, yet No one will hold This yellowed old tome These sad pages of poetry Sheets of simile And lines of depressed rhyme Where Silverfish have dined As it now gathers dust A must; if it’s to rest in peace Amongst This graveyard of books