Seclusion

The candle burns lower as the room grows colder 

while the spiders feast upon their prey.

The dust grows denser while the man sits tenser, 

as his cough echoes in the room.  

Work stacks higher, 

sounds from the fire, 

his foot gently tapping against the wooden floor.  

Shadows from afar, 

made by the stars, 

creep ever so slowly from the window.

The man is alone, 

cold to the bone, 

secluded from the rest of the world.  

A quill drips black, 

sitting on a rack, 

gradually changing the color of the wood.  

Recalling memories, 

taking remedies, 

a shot of whiskey to easy his nerves.  

The man starts to laugh, 

when the bottle is half, 

as creatures lurk outside his door.

His heart beats faster, 

the crickets a bastard, 

skipping there harmonic melody.  

The bottle is empty; 

his body becomes hefty, 

with dizziness clenching his frail mind.

The room becomes black, 

as the man starts to hack, 

uncomfortably suppressing the inevitable blowout.  

Ten dollars now lay on the floor; 

the man never viewed it that way before.

Rats came happily, 

as the man sat sadly, 

watching them devour the pile of stench.  

His gun lay loaded; 

a loud explosion, 

smoke fills the little room.

 

Load the bullet, 

pack the powder, 

the power of god is in his hands.  

The man grows tired, 

the gun rises higher, 

and the bullet of freedom will reign once more.