​I sit by candlelight.

           The candle wax is solid and erect,
  The parchment is illuminated with the wick’s              
                           dancing flame,
    The pocket watch ticks with every ominous  
                                Second,
  The aroma of bourbon whisky wafts from my
                                full flask,
  The smoking pipe shoots out puffs of ashen
                                  smoke,
  The feather pen’s pointed nib is at the ready.

  The wax has strewn all over the silver holder,
The parchment is shadowed by the wicks dying
                                embers,
           The pocket watch ticks with every
                        dawning second,
The spills of bourbon whisky drip down the side
                       of my quarter flask,
  The smoking pipe sputters bits of flavourless
                                   dust,
  The feather pen’s fractured nib is ready to fall.