Matted felt holds tight against the skin
               the candles that light the night
have cried themselves to stubs
               flickering their last efforts
against the tired authors eyes.

The words he writes seep out like sweat
               something pushed through the pores
that in their passing cools the flesh
               and leaves a heavy weight to the air
growing darker.

The paper beneath his heavy arm
               is folded meticulously for the future
it takes the ink like a dead thing
               pecked apart by carrion birds
the message he writes, hidden bones
               beneath pulpy flesh.

Mumbling the shadows of those scribbled prose
               he tears up against the weakness of his voice
recognizing it now as an alien thing
               only to be heard again as an echo
on some other minds gramophone.

When the words run out
               he will seal it with wax
a few months later it will be read
               by which time he will be dead
resurrected only in those words
               written, though, unsaid
played like an old record
               from memories of higher fidelity.