On Books

I sit here, aged
worn and world weary
memories of a thousand hands
that etched themselves on my skin
and even now, the gentlest hands
send reverberations along my spine

And you, young and glossy
sit there mocking my old ways
emptying my shelves
and scorning my brothers
You do not know

When my temples burn,
the people cry out
When my brothers catch fire,
there is outrage

But you, usurper
None shall mourn your passing
or risk their life to protect
your failing hardware