An ink and a blot
A paper and its creases
A bored poet at loss
The lone shadow of the candle flame,
Hides the rest of the world from light
An alley cat's stealth walk
Creeps past the window of the poet
He stretches, cranes his neck
There, a maiden trod in the night
Under the canopy shadows of still trees
The wind was queer tonight
The moon seemed bashful too
He reaches out to call
But she turns to look at him
And like a dying wisp of a candle,
She's gone.
Dumbstruck, he sits,
He smoothens out the creases
He ignores the blot
He writes a poem
Of the maiden in the shadows.