A desk bathed in morning light
An open journal, kawhe-stained
A small candle expended overnight
And crumpled works disdained

A quill, marred in midnight black
Pressed tightly beneath still hands
Snoring sounds no longer held back
By someone claimed by sleep's demands

Rythm and rhyme to melt a heart
Forever immortalized in ink
Expressing feelings--a way to start
For someone too shy to wink

A piece of paper scratched in black
With a writer's hopes and dreams
Beside parchment neatly stacked
Waiting to no longer be pristine


Penned by my hand on the 9th of Scarlatan, in the year 606 AF.