An old and all familiar couch,
A friendly port to tired souls.
An ink is drying on a paper,
A lonely candle dying slow.
With writings over woodwork grounds,
Pretentious wits walk lonely paths.
With mighty hand in strokes of blizzard,
The papers fly across the flat.
Will floods of riddles spring out meanings,
With restless hands clocked overnight?
Will pages seek to plea their biddings,
With heartfelt strides poached oversight?
When noble heroes piercing villains,
Presumptuous words fill great ideals.
When spiders knitting webs of deals,
Precautious wrinkles wool ideas.
And then her loot is owned by longing.
His lines are soothed by twisted loving.
Her heart is dozed with silks of odding,
His efforts shall be blessed with quoting.