The Starting End

There once was a poet that sat in a corner
Of a room inspired by peace
A simple wood desk,
A window of lace
Nature’s tones were the colors,
That calmed his small space

Outside moist snow fell, as it called winter in
Warm though, his bones did stay
Wrapped in a bath robe that draped past his knees,
One that’s been softened through wear and with age

To his right was a photo, silver matt framed,
A memory of earlier life
To his left, a candle, in its usual place,
Its wax slowly dripping a prefect dull white

It burned, this candle
Faster than thought
Frustrated his feelings, couldn’t be penned
They hung in the shadow
Between him and his paper
He glanced at the photo and sat back again

Visions of memories
Before his eyes played,
As if, it was a life before
A photo of time he no longer knew,
Tears dripped like wax
As those days, he mourned

A majestic poet, with so much to say,
Is now lost in a world of the past
A glance at the candle,
The melted small flicker
Ironically feeling, his life has gone by,
…Seemingly just as fast

The flame that struggles to stay alive,
Now symbolic, this night of his soul
The poet retires his pen one more time,
Keeps his thoughts to himself,
Keeps his pain untold

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