Birth of a Novel

In a troublesome mood, half engulfed firelight with a silk sheen perspire, emerging a thought In round wire glasses, too light to be noticed and a brass nib in ink, the moment was caught It was twirled 'round a finger, half calloused with ink with a wedding band clasp, from a lifetime ago to be mulled an enigma, in bled scroll designs on pages which only his fingers would know By the crack of the fire, he stretched to the brink every nuance he carried, like whispering skin The embers died down, 'till he caught up a chill but he couldn't conclude, what he didn't begin The words were in charge, in general ink and he wrote in a fervor, and shook until still with bones turned to ash, in the blue of the room a novel was born, but the author was killed.