By candlelight I write
late into the night
as the wax weeps
molten tears into the
hollowed skull
watching me
with hollowed sockets,
jet black in an ivory face.
Chimes toll the witching hour,
though it is no spell I craft.
My eyes grow heavy with sleep,
but the characters dance
a noble duet
even as the darkness
envelops us all.
They spin, and fall,
and fade
until the coming of a new day,
full of promise
to begin the pas-de-deux
anew.
BlackQuill 