Stream Of Consciousness

A short vingette of an instant every writer faces

The words fall flat on the page,
The ink settles in the paper.
A new act starts on a new stage,
And the wax drips down the taper.

Time burns with the melting wax,
And more words begin to appear.
The endless hours begin to tax,
And I find that I’m still here.

The blackness stains the perfect white.
My thoughts pour from my hand.
The candle fails; there’s no more light,
And that obligates me to end.

The stream of consciousness is flowing,
And though I leave, the pen keeps going.