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 adorning  
with unframed verses below and above  
a haiku sweet graces his table  
a ballad long covers his floor  
more he would add if he were able  
but one wonders if there is room for more  
yet still driven he labors long into the night  
his blood turns to ink until morning light