A poet's room

He sat on the wooden chair
His elbows on the wooden desk in front
The wooden couple
gazed at him, eyelessly
Their eternal wait on his room's floor

They had infected him
As he waited
for the tip of his pen
to sprout a verse on the paper
The tip and paper met
in a insipid touch
No sparks flew, neither the words ejected
No muse appeared, neither did it rain
No providence and nothing divine

Byron lay to his right, Burns to his left
A portrait of Keats, hung behind his back
Their freezed words and faces
mocked him.
All he wanted was Auden's occult
to bring all the bards
back in his roomly congregation.
To enquire about the art of words
How the structures they wrought
How the muses, they found
How the ink, they precluded
from drying in the pen.
How the climes they sought in their works.

No one came.
Nothing written.
All of the room just gazed.
Listening to his breathing.
A shadow elongated on the sheet
concealing his failure
as the sun slipped from the dome.
Who wants the candles?
He wants even denser darkness
Heavier, stronger.
to conceal him from his conscience.