Eyre, I Might Make Error (in my ways)

Cold blasts make for hot steams

on this white-buried, dark-rigged,

ungodly hour of night—

When a soul may rest, semi-recumbent,

on her bed and brood over a book,

worth (and paid for) over a year of her life.

She possesses two lights, both she drapes

in wrinkled red, which cast scarlet shadows

over the black and white.

Thrilled, she fixates, trembling, over a plea,

"Oh, St. John have some mercy!"

Oh, St. John

Have mercy.

Have mercy.

Blood and bone collapse as vision turns crimson.

A heart pounds with the knowing that—

Icy demeanors make for fervid nights,

and, most certainly, an interesting read.