The candles steep toward their inevitable demise,

Under the glowing moon on this crooked, hallowed night.

The Study sits dust riddled with a desk covered in papered lies.

Blotted by the blood of pens in the shrinking light.

In this chair of ivory and gold,

By the warm, burning hearth,

Surrounded by portraits of vanity foretold,

With the window, embraced by wool, looking down at paradise’s garth,

With the oaken door ajar and the cashmere rug along the floor,

The Man of Letters stands opposite a mirror, pondering life and time again.

For from the castle of turpitude on the moor,

He stands alone amidst his garden of thoughts and the perfect crime, now and then.

Photo by Robby McCullough on Unsplash