the old poet

The old poet,
With his long, gray beard
And pale, gaunt face,
Squinted through the candlelight
That illuminated his desk.

How long he had been sitting there,
He could not remember.
The fragrances of wood and melting wax,
Paper and fresh ink,
Lingered in the damp room.

In this place he had carefully crafted
Sentence and stanza,
Masterfully guiding each word into place
By the light of a single flame.

He would not eat,
He would not sleep.
He only sat there in his chair,
A ghostly figure,
Beckoning poems from the shadows.

Some said he was a madman,
A mad scientist with words.
Trading demons for dictionaries,
He broke down the universe into letters
And tried to stitch it back together
In a sentence that could somehow explain
The things that haunted him.

In that desolate space
He strung together letters
Like stars across the sky,
New combinations constellations
That he drew from the night.

In the solitude of his cellar
He was a god,
Holding the power to shape his world
In the grip of his hand,
The tip of his pen.

Drunk from the power
That is mightier than the sword,
He remained there.
Day after day,
Searching, still searching-
The old, lonely poet.