Awake and alive, when comes the night
Alone on his desk, by the candlelight
Scratching paper, with a quill in hand
Time is an hourglass, devoid of sand
His hands, rough and scuffed, like a mole’s
Out flows rivers of ink, lucid, black as coal
Books in piles
Piles of columns
Columns of stories
Stories of a home
A home of tomes
The ink is all there is
Scared and alone I stand, in this imposing doorway
Hand up high, on the knob, watching his internal fray
My bare feet on wood, stuffed bear in hand
His face away, away unseen, a vessel unmanned
Speaking with a voice, not directed at me
The back of his head is all I ever see
Stacks of papers
Papers of thoughts
Thoughts of fiction
Fiction of a home
A home of tomes
The ink is all that remains
In perpetual haste, he turns the pages
Of life, the times, and all the ages
In the pages turned, dried puddles rising and seeping
Puddles of Crimson Red
His hands, cut and broken, his eyes, heavy and weeping
Dripping ink, of the life he led
In the end, black leads to red
Torrents of crimson
Crimson in blood
Blood from decay
Decay is the home
The home of tomes
His ink is all there is
His ink is all that remains
Thank you for reading! 😀 Follow my newsletter by entering your Email in the right-hand column! (Bottom of the page on mobile) 🙂
Corey Toomey 
Holy smoke that is grey! Is there more? No writers block here. Continue on my friend, I’m greedy for more. Good night.
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Yep, there are more poems here that you can find. 🙂 I post them to my Facebook page, too.
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That’s some poem! And I love the picture.
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