The Writer

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The flickering candlelight
A wooden table missing one leg
The chair used for too long
His hand moved on the page

He was hunched over
A tiny peice of paper
A bottle of ink
At his left

The dead of night
All but he slept soundly
As the moon hung overhead
Whispering to the stars

A brow made from concentration
Formed in his forehead
In the two roomed humble cottage
His quill dove for more ink

A rooster crowed, though it was
No where near dawn
Where the shadow of poverty
Would take the place of the quill and ink

His face grew tired
But the quill kept going
Forming letters on the old parchment
The ink, quill and paper his only company

A brush against his legs
A figure of a cat
Who was poised to jump
And did as himself willed

The cat pounced on the ink
Dribbling of black onto the parchment
A blot of black
Resting, soaking into it's new home

He cried out
Yet it was useless
The candle began to
Flicker

Flicker
And flicker
Fading into the ebony of night
A tear weaves it's way out of his eye

And it falls
Falling
Falling
It stops

A world in motion
All lost in a single tear
Only witnessed by one
And darkness filled the room

The end of one world
The beginning of another world from words.





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