ink on the sleeve

the sun has set
paying his debt  
giving way  
to her crescent moon.  
summer the feeling heat  
as the breeze through the wide la fenêtre, does speak.  
flickering and shadowing  
side to side  
moving the candle's ancient light  
for the long blistering night.  
finger tips covered, stained, and black on the sleeve  
he so plans  
like that hour glass with its sand  
busy to the craft  
anticipating the evening's drafts  
his heart, a dulling sound  
the truthiness of a lover's tune.  
hear it...with a rhythmic pound.  
laid out parchment  
flat and in balls,miss stroked, crumpled  
yet meant.  
words scattering, dotting, imprinting the page  
momentary thoughts of a withering sage  
as his formations  
all bearing, pointing as a beacon  
an arrow's paradox to the target, it's seeking  
each line fashioned  
giving to utter passion.