How the World Should Work

The hours late

I close the gate

My shutters, clasp and lock

 

I ring the bell

Fill my inkwell

And glance, toward the clock

 

An evening chill

It greets my quill

As letters join, to words

 

The only sound

Which can be found

Is chirping, of the birds

 

My thoughts now drift

Away, they lift

As dim, I fade the light

 

Now ideas flow

My stories grow

For this, is how I write