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...