In the candlelight, the pen sails paper,
Sleep was landing elsewhere.
Late, it is only the poet and the candlelight,
The head needs to end off
For the body to relax.
It seems the press of a newspaper that the high
Hours, begins to work to break the news
The next day.
The words pour from his eyes, as
The candle wax that clings to the body,
In an attempt to continue to be ...