Bookworm Poem by Fleance Candide

Dusty jackets coughing with age;
Leathered bindings of royal red -
The pockmarked paper skin
Of wrinkled literati. A living atlas
Speaks of strange wonders stole
From yellowed pages. Those unread
Snow white as my remaining locks.
Sweet smelling lore. The incense
Pours as academia pours through
Meticulous, ridiculous research -
Eating it all up but savouring none.
A Romantic appetizer. Then Classics.
And dessert - famous philosophers
Whose names resonate with grandeur.
The fools.

Now but a tick-list for hypocrites.
From war to pieces; those words, once revered, gargle
For the cancerous poet’s license. All but vanity’s hollow
Chat up line - a passing ploy for the grammatically godless,
Nought there to appreciate but the name itself:

- Immovable, deified, towering from ivory stand.

I am well read. The Renaissance Man.
But I am a fool.
In the ways of the world I am stupid
For, as I sit, my eyes follow the page -
They make friends