The Last

The golden candlelight lit the room,
An auburn glow comes off the books.
Great tomes of knowledge covered in
Dust and centuries worth of dead bugs.

A single desk that sits in here,
Surrounded by ancient books of knowledge,
Deeply entrenched in the imagination
And years of rotting papers everywhere.

The candle sits upon this wooden desk,
Burning dim as hours pass by slowly.
The wax drips down the side in play,
Pooling at the base and in the holder.

A small window sits behind this desk,
Closed but still it shows outside.
The deep and dark of night settling
As the wind howls and rain pounds down.

The chair that matches desk is full,
A man of learned years sits silently.
Reading over texts he has so many
Times before, to memorise their detail.

A door is in his view yet far from reach,
Beckoning him into the room beyond.
Where nothing but memories lie in wait,
Hoping that he would one day return.

The only sounds that he makes is in
The turning of the pages in his books.
A sound he has grown to love and
Learnt to respect as years go by.

He knows he cannot stay here forever,
Running low on candles proves that now.
And yet he wishes to do nothing more
Than sit and wait till they run out again.

He does not count the days for which he
Stays inside this small cramped room.
Surrounded by his texts, he is comforted,
And so he does not feel a need to leave.

He has not eaten since he last went out,
And since that hour has been long ago,
His stomach makes small sounds of protests
Every hour or so these last few days.

As candle dims and reading becomes hard,
He takes the last candle from its box.
Lighting it by the flame which has been
Sitting here for months to say the least.

As time drips by again, he manages to draw
Himself away from his precious books.
He can hear the silence of his loneliness
And the sadness of his emptiness forever.

Drawing deep breath, he looks around the room
He has been in for ever so long again.
The books are many and they tower up high,
Till they reach the ceiling far above.

They reach towards the sides as well,
Leaving a hole for aforementioned window
And the door that stays in front of him.
He can smell them from the place he sits.

He looks around him in vast astonishment.
He has been in this room for many years
And still he has not read but half of these
That are but a hairs breadth away from him.

Sighing, his weary loneliness complete,
He closes the book before him silently.
Snuffing out the light with his fingers,
He leaves this room once and for all.

No amount of reading would finish them now
For his death date is fast approaching.
He has the need to feel the life he fled
And kept away for so very long indeed.

KC - 12/7/05