I am the writer

An old grandfather clock chimes, the late hours of night, but i pay no attention to how many times.

An empty bottle of wine is nearly full of ashes overflowing, a few butts still smoldering.

A blank page stares back at me, mocking. With this fowl mouth of mine, I'm amazed that words are so hard to find.

Winter winds howl, and ancient floorboards creak, upstairs there are a few people that sleep.

A mind, a world unto it's own, where a fairytale can be waylaid, or molested by the dead.

I love this time of mine, all alone, it is where I live and thrive, a place where I can never die.

My hand, my pen, my soul, all these pieces to puzzle of words i write.

Nothing, and no one can erase all these lands , these places, and worlds that I create.

I am my own master, a master to my mind. I can see the future and write just whatever I like.

I have a dark side, he is not tame, nor of the like-mind, and some may even say, a little insane.

I don't mind, I don't worry, for I make my marks with pen to paper, creating miracle words in the blackest ink.

These worlds of mine, I bring to you, pulling you inward, it is where we may both sit, and drink of the finest wines.

In this world, the mind does dine!