Worn-out, exhausted
This tome starts to fade
Once with crisp entries
It welcomes its grave

Scholars adored it
Or so it did think
Selfishly used it
While chafing its ink

Crying, depleted
This rotting tome grieves
Pages to dust while
recalling its thieves

Crumpling to nothing
It breaths its last sigh
Used and abused was
its life, only wry