wax runs slowly from his candle
as ink flows freely from his pen
daydreams stretched out on his anvil
where each word he hammers into rhythm

with skill he’s tooling an ode of mourning
beside his fire lies a sonnet undone
paintings of prose around him are scattered
and unframed verses his walls adorn

a haiku sweet graces his table
a ballad long covers his floor
his home already filled to overflowing
one wonders if there is room for more

he’s unable to sell them, try as he might
though each skillfully crafted is a work of art 
still driven he labors long into the night
his blood turns to ink as he pours out his heart 

down at the market where men sell their wares
poems fetch only a penny a line
he’s chosen a craft that a pittance pays
he’ll have to settle for a book of rhymes

his inkwell low he walks down to the store
where he refills his stock of whiskey and wine
exchanging his farthings for bread and butter 
and a chance at a glance of a fair lass fine

she, his inspiration, and fuel to his fire
yet she’ll ne'er know, she’s his psalm to be sung
so on marches time and their verse can't be written 
for his words flow on page, just not from his tongue

so the wax keeps running from his candle dim
the ink from this wordsmith continues to flow 
his daydreams he hammers over his anvil
but prose they might have written we’ll never know