Keeper of the Books

I did intend to write something great today but what I came up with is too long.  For the record: I DID outline a short story that I eventually want to post here, but it is too great an undertaking for me this late at night.  So, in the meantime, I will write something small.  It will probably be underwhelming, but all things considered I think it counts.

In that house lives the Keeper of the Books

Who fills his shelves for the sake of looks

Within lie tomes of ancient history

And a great deal on crime and mystery

In all his years he's not read one

To read would mean his mind undone

Texts on science and philosophy

Books of romance and geography

All lay quiet, gathering dust

Abandoned like metal left to rust

What good in all the world are books

If only ever kept for looks?