Poetic Archer

With the tallow melted and the wick nil,

Jack frost tat lace on the window sill.

Woos plant a swoon on this bard's poetic archer,

Last breath of verse for this scorcher.

As the ashes on the grate kindle a spark,

On the nib of quill before final dark.

Bellows of the winds carol sweet delicacy,

Like a lute with a spot gin in my mediocrity,

And as I scribe of my oaken tokens.

A flask of sensuality you served me last night,

Woos plant a swoon on a this bard's poetic archer,

For on this sheepskin I honor my love,

As the archangel stands above.

The quietness of my spirit, just passing,

With the tallow melted and the wick nil,

And the silence of my pen, stood still.