Days of Yore

In memory of all the great writers....

Alone he sits.

From a darkened window he peers,

Out into the night,

Minding,

The world in silence.

 

Lines etched deep in his face,

Like cracks in an old porcelain plate.

Eyes glazed over,

Tired, and yet,

A flicker still remains.

 

He rubs his eyes,

From beneath antique, tarnished glasses.

Bones creak,

When he stands,

To draw the shades for the night.

 

Across the room,

A candle burns at a rickety wooden table.

He makes his way,

Dragging his feet,

At a snails pace, so it seems.

 

The old writer takes a seat.

One callused hand clutches a feathered pen.

Tip to parchment,

Memories spill,

A story is born from the cobwebbed corners of his mind.

 

He writes,

All his soul dares to bear.

Until,

The candle’s light,

Disappears within the melted wax for which it once stood.

 

Then sets his pen aside,

And persists to squeeze the stiffness from his hands.

A habit,

Of which,

Is to no avail, but in his mind, gives comfort.

 

He leans back,

Clasps his hands atop his belly,

And closes his eyes,

To escape,

Once more… in reminiscent dreams of his days of yore.

 

SJ Roebling/Copyright 2008  (Shirley Petrandis)

 

Reviews

[KevinS]

This poem deserves a top award. It should be published as well.
Fantastic work!

[LadyLove]

I love this! You have captured an inspired moment in one man's creative mind. I like the quietness of his private moments with himself and his thoughts. The thoughtful pauses of age come across as well..and patience with things. Very good!