He sits in darkness

That candle lit poet

With shadows dancing on his face

In a most sinister way

Twisted frowns and devilish grins

As he writes his requiem

For a nightmare he had last night

While chewed pen lids

And ink stained paper

From where he pressed too hard

Or hesitated while lost in thought

Sit on the table before him

In disarry, wadded up

Forgotten snowballs

And broken toys

He's out grown them, moved on

To write his next masterpiece

He writes well into the night

Now 3 am

Posessed by his ideas

Overcome by that driving urge

And the literary beast

That's standing behind him

Words drool from its mouth

Splash onto the paper like tears

As it howls sorrowful soliloquies

Oblivious to the candle lit poet

Writing down his words

He continues

His hand flowing over the paper

Scrawling, scratching

The only noise in the room

The candle flickers and the poet stops

For a brief second the world stops moving

Silence is thick in the air

He stares at the weakening flame and sighs

The beast subsides for now

He stands, stretches, creaks

His hinges could use some oil

But what this candle-lit-sleepy-eyed poet needs most is sleep

Maybe he'll dream of hellish things

Or sugar coated skies

He'll write about it later

Under the cool cloak of night

When the beast roams free inside his mind

But for now

One final flicker, a woosh of breath

The fire dies and the poet sleeps