Oh, Bookshelf, standing honorably in the corner.
Your aged, cork-like flesh armored in faux-wood protects
My most prized possessions,
Like the group of adventurers in that one, painfully long book
Whose spine hulks between a tome about philosophy
and the Necronomicon.
Oh, Bookshelf, your duty to uphold those legends is no easy task,
But that is what you were made for:
Being pushed to your limits with each new addition
Of a classic's modernized and translated edition
With no complaint nor creak,
And no gripe nor squeak,
Enduring a paperback hell
Like an unnamed, studious sentinel.
Oh, Bookshelf, how easily I could relieve your burden
By taking away a tale and committing my time to it,
Bestowing my cognitive shelves with the lines
About people not unlike me,
Who instead probably have the self-control to pick up a damn book
And read it.
Oh, Bookshelf, it shouldn't be long now,
It's a new year, a new me,
And a new resolution
To read.