Residing there on long forgotten shelves,
Down disused aisles in basements dark and dank;
Neath libraries where books can write themselves,
Where endless quills and ink pots scrawl and clank.
A dusty tome, it's cover worn with age,
Withered corners, dog-eared, blunt and battered;
Adventures told on every fading page,
Some folded down to mark the days that mattered.
A life, as told in some biography,
The tale of one who lived and loved and died,
Their name now long consigned to history,
One book that keeps their story safe inside.
        An epilogue: Lest anyone forgets -
        The subject of this tale had no regrets.