Lost Art
Tuning out everything
Except the sounds
Of burning candles
And the flow of black ink
Above a notebook page
Distinct sizzles
As the flames consume wicks
And letters converge upon the blue lines
Is life anything like
Writing in the dark?
The sun has set
The bright beam of the blue pen light
Allows poetic listener to record
All forms of fire music, allegro or acappella
The harsh scratch of the wrong word
The soft sneaky spring of a closing sentence
The almost inaudible sighs of orange hot wax
The up tempo sputters of flickering light against glass
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