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
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.