Languishing

When I was young, reading became 
an enchanting, endless source of mind 
recreation. Then I became older, with
greater responsibilities claiming time
and attention and reading narrowed to
its more educational role in shaping
minds. A truce was called in the
struggling competition where books 
both entertaining and informative held
equal measures of esteem and utility.
Like an absorbed pack-rat, once a book
laid its wordy heft in my hands, it
became a prized possession; my library
of stolen thoughts grew incrementally
and joyfully I appraised my kingdom
and its treasures. Now I am old, my
books are those read and set aside, and
those not yet entered my thoughts but
awaiting entry. It is presumed by
common wisdom that the elderly have
far fewer necessities of life vying for
scarce time and attention, yet I begin
to despair I will ever conquer my majestic,
towering Everest of unread books.