The old bell jangles as I come through the door 

A familiar step down to a dark wooden floor

A petrichor from pages hangs in the air

Its musty aroma telling tales of their wear

On shelves, are bindings crafted by hands

Lost & forgotten to times shifting sands 

And others, whose fingers caressed those old pages:

A DNA echo still lingers through ages

In a corner sits Miss Austin without prejudice, only pride 

She acknowledges Dr Jekyll, but avoids Mr Hyde

Lord Byron tries to woo her with poetry & charm

But her sense & sensibility tells her to always remain calm!

And Mary Shelly's monster has escaped her grasp once-more 

It may explain strange creakings, upon the wooden floor 

There's a white whale, wizards, and androids that cry

And knowledge of centuries far beyond you & I

I pluck a new treat, retire to my old  comfy chair

That fits me so well, but I feel people stare

A voice declares: “Dickens sat there, back in his day.” 

I say,  “And I liked a bit of peace, so please go away!”