The Author


Sitting in darkness
alone
drumming fingers make the hollow thumps
striking in even, uneven rhythm
on the desk.
the clock sounds its steady tick-tock
tick-tock
only changing to strike the hours
in sullen tones
the sun comes in the window
shining brightly, illuminating the page
slowly, letters form
then words
sentences
paragraphs
pages
the slow tick-tock of the clock
is rivaled by the swift turning of pages
as eager eyes strain to drink in
every word
the book is closed
a sigh of satisfaction
Tennyson and Kipling still live
Maybe
someday
so will I

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