A hardcover gleams like treasure,
stitched spine, a sovereign throne—
but the price demands a ransom
fit for kings, not readers’ homes.
A paperback rests humbly,
light enough to tag along;
yet its corners bruise and crumple,
its proud back breaks before too long.
The ebook beams from nothing,
a ghost behind a glassy wall—
words without the wooden whisper
of a shelf or paper’s drawl.
So I stand before three portals
and grumble, choosing just one door:
gold too dear, dust too fragile,
and a phantom I can’t adore.