books are my only companions
they speak to me so succintly
their language is a land to look upon
my verse and prose whine weakly

he's deteriorating, spending his time in his study
he writes and writes, reads and bellows
he claims no one else was ever his buddy
but i've been here this entire time while my skin turns yellow

the pages are citrus-smelling, reeking of age
tell me how all of these stories will never be truly explored
times-roman over sans, magical cues of a mage
attempt to urge me into action, open the door, it's no chore

"come out," i say to him, knocking on the entrance
the door's locked, and he speaks no words
"i love you so much," i plead, hesitant,
and i retreat back again, shake my head, he's lost to this world

the window is closed, stuck in my recluse
morning and night mix, so i must've been off-track
i look at the door, sounds billowing refuse
me to focus on my work, i'll never forget racket such as that

they're here, the pungent smell is in there right now
so they've come to knock the walls down,
there among the stacks of papers and books,
his story became one of no-good looks