The Library

His musty books are always thickly bound,
They cling like guilt, though he will not account
To them for this disciple he has found:
Prepared to show these books how she will mount
The desk that lies within this library,
Where vellum will ensure they're not disturbed,
As he instructs her, with the certainty
That any dissonance will not be heard;
Let hearts convulse as they become aware,
That there's a price to pay for the attention
Of any written tome, that can ensnare
And overwhelm with each intervention;
They aren't the only things that kill: her looks
Reflect the sheen of musty, gilt-edged books.