Mytholmroyd

In The room, sat The man, alone,
with the glow of dying embers,
painting patterns on plaster walls.
A strong moon lit a frosty pane
in a window on the world,
this winters night
frozen within an icy tomb.
The man sat staring, not moving
outwardly,as candle flames flickered
haunting shadows from his past.
In his hands,his life,
the pen and the spirit,
on the table, the demons lie
in an empty page.
Neither moves, forward nor back,
only time shifts onward.
Outside,footprints,something
stirs, more alive than anything
here,more real, earthly savage.
But the man sits,unmoved
by such vibrancy.
Closer in,his eyes reddened
by the flame,something
flickers and distills,the spirit
revived,uplifted and downed,
the pen moves fast,manically
tracing acres of open page,
two lives now,inside and out
as yet un-met, as one,
both earthly savage.
His face expressionless,
the clock ticks on,
the page is written,
his job is done.