Tonight, attired in frock coat and high black boots, my white Meershaum in hand. On the book shelves, arrayed, the souls and songs of a thousand plus poets stand.
And time hovers at this threshold of forever now, even as the sands of duration descend through the hour glasses' fragile stems, more silent than the softest snow.
It's here I muse in the throne-like chair with arm at rest amid the artifacts' golden glow, as reveries flow within the mythic realm of the Red Salon.
