Jane Eyre

My livre is heavy with words of centuries,
heavy like a metal chest filled with treasure
waiting to be unlocked,
heavy with the guilt of smooth, crisp pages unperturbed by human hands.
She is bound in creamy chocolate brown leather,
her spine stiff with decades spent on a pedestal,
her cover creased with a child's delight.
She holds in her frame the knowledge of years past
like a tree holds history in its rings.
She breathes life into her words like a horse to its filly.
She wraps them in her warm skin like a blanket on a cold day.

I will remove the dust now thick on her coat,
soften the spine of the stiff brown leather,
spoil the pages of their virginal purity.
To home she will return,
cleaned, used, and frequently visited.