Saturday, September 1, 2012

Gary Imperial

At His Desk

The air is thick with fate, a culmination yet to be.
Wadded paper in the fire scents the air.
Fingers tapping on the desk, a rolling beat of four.
He stares into the corners of his mind.
Cognac warms his tongue, still there are no words.
The quill is light in hand, it's freshly dipped.
Whisper from the dark, moves his hand to write.
Once upon a midnight dreary...

1 comment:

  1. ah, an Ode to Poe...I was intrigued, had no idea where you were going with this one... more excited with the freshly dipped quill, and the 'cherry' on top of this sundae was "Once upon a midnight dreary"