Your book you wrote with special care.
It sits now in your somber lair
Upon a desk, open, in the dark,
The light of the moon shining in--
The shadows in the room are stark.
The cold air turns the pages yellow
Like the candle made of tallow.
The pages covered with cherished thoughts
Are inscribed in black, the letters taut.
The foggy air comes through the window
And your beloved writings grow old and sallow
With time that leaves them undiscovered
Within this room, under night's dark cover.
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