One True Magic

The only witchery is self.
Thought sags with pleasure in the thought
That sunlight on a book-lined shelf
Is fine, is proof I can't be caught

By any mistakes not my own,
By any malevolence not
My divinity's. (Bookshelves groaned
With the weight of their own dry-rot,

And the digital citizen's
Pride deteriorated as it got
To the point where the decision
To store culture in self forgot

Change.) Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme
Chose. Ah, see, the self remains the same
However self itself condemns
Spells dependent on using names.