Named for the wisdom I possess, I have a small fondness for reading.
Even in the night, my eyes shine bright at the sight of a library,
With its pages upon pages of parchment,
And brittle books with broken bindings.
When on one of my weekly raids, I sack the stacks and cart home my loot,
So much of it that I must bend double to accommodate its weight.
My eyes move faster than the speed of light,
Not so much reading the words as absorbing them.
Like Smaug guarding his treasure, sleeping among it, reveling in it,
So I guard my books, the pearls of wisdom, and the phrases that, in the mind,
Glow like gold. They speak to me, my books;
I hear their siren calls in my dreams,
Whispers in the back of my mind while I wonder;
Should I toil? || Complete the tasks set before me?
But their words are too sweet, like honey, and I succumb to temptation, bite the apple.
I pick up a book, a novel, a tome, and let it carry my mind where it will,
To distant lands and long ago times,
Until the siren is satisfied, and the taste of honey fades from my tongue,
The golden tone of bells from my ears, and I am dashed upon the rocks,
Having failed to complete my task. And the frigid water closes in over my head,
And panic, despair, and self-loathing begin to set in,
But I can still remember the taste of honey and the sweet sound of bells,
And I am not quite sorry.
And the siren calls again, and again I answer.
If in possession of a love of reading you find yourself,
Then let it go, as quickly as possible.
For once it has you firmly in its grasp, it will never let you go.
Your eyesight and alliances will be sacrificed on its altar.
There might still be hope for you, but it is too late for me.