Like melted butter moonlight pours,
through spiderwebs and window panes,
in pools upon the wooden floors,
within a room where stillness reigns.
An antique bed is left unmade,
beside a broken rocking horse.
The curtains flutter, thin and frayed,
as passing years maintain their course.
But who can tell if in the night,
a flame ignites the dormant wick,
and in the dancing candlelight,
the silent clock begins to tick?
Perhaps the horse begins to nay.
From wooden slumber found awake,
it canters round the room in play,
before the dawn begins to break.
When fantasies are swept aside,
the painted horse can only rock,
with sanguine childlike dreams denied
beneath the ticking of the clock.