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Red Wine and Unraveled Worlds

Poem

Laying flat on an oak shelf, a red wine stained book, open to page 136, a map of the South African coast line.

Sitting quiet in front of the fireplace, a rueful mahogany desk is placed; the occasional cracking ember scaring its top like freckles.

A man, sits writing in the red-ember light of the room, starring deeply into the glowing coals, he dips his pen into a bottle of ink, he scribbles across the parchment, he holds it up to the faint light.
Grasping a wine bottle in a sort of circular motion he fills his glass half way, red droplets slipping from the mouth of the bottle and splashing onto the wood in tiny puddles.  

He squints, adjusts his reading glasses on his nose, grunts softly and nods his head in approval; the expedition will work.

He lights a red-wax stick and it drips hot splotches onto the page, he presses his seal into its center, pulling the metal back, he signs his name in black.

 

Laying flat on an oak shelf, a red wine stained book, open to page 136, a map of the South African coast line.

Sitting quiet in front of the fireplace, a rueful mahogany desk is placed; the occasional cracking ember scaring its top like freckles.

A man, sits writing in the red-ember light of the room, starring deeply into the glowing coals, he dips his pen into a bottle of ink, he scribbles across the parchment, he holds it up to the faint light.
Grasping a wine bottle in a sort of circular motion he fills his glass half way, red droplets slipping from the mouth of the bottle and splashing onto the wood in tiny puddles.  

He squints, adjusts his reading glasses on his nose, grunts softly and nods his head in approval; the expedition will work.

He lights a red-wax stick and it drips hot splotches onto the page, he presses his seal into its center, pulling the metal back, he signs his name in black.

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