An Empty Poet Poem by Yohan Confectioner

The room held frames,
frames of thought.
the books lay bare and base
like rotten flowers in a vase.

The lantern feebly pointed to the sky,
it's light; an open but mute mouth.
the poets gloom did belong
in the whirred fans suburban song.

The mantelpiece stood gilded,
scattered sheets knelt before it.
each chided rhyme
had been embrowned by Time.

The walls enclosed all,
of colour, rhyme and Time.
the rhapsodic lit of yore
an old forgotten lore.