That One Old Book, Third From the Left

Every time I slide the worn leather binding
off of the shelves, it seems to have amassed
an entirely new coating of dust on the tops.
The bumpy binding still slides smoothly
from in between paper-bound brethren.
The spine, long broken, still manages to
find a place to creak when opened.
The gold-edged pages turn like
ancient parchment, frail and delicate,
willing to disintegrate with a cross look.
But despite the age, the words on the page
stay the same, and resonate against the
cone of the bell of truth, and I pull it out
to turn through and read
every now and again.