by Maguiber C., 18
He sat all alone in the dim candle lights writing his poems well into the night. The bats hovered round on the turrets so tall whilst the raven lay still on the stone castle wall.
The ghosts of the ages were frozen in time as they watched him immersed in his verse and his rhyme. The chimes in the belfry would sound every hour as the figurines spun round the clock in the tower.
His works were admired by so many good folks and some legends surrounded this man in dark cloaks. His hair to his shoulders and beard that was long was always aloof not in tune with the song.
Some say he had gifts that were not from this world as the wind on his hilltop round battlements world. His fortress had seen violent wars through the years so many being lost to the arrows and spears.
In centuries gone by, this was home to a queen. But today in this room was a much different scene. No servants or banquets, no crown and no jewels. Just a quill pen and parchment, where poetry rules.
Some thought that his words were not truly his own, as though he was channeled when entering the zone. They claimed that the spirits were aiding his flow. It was 3:33, it had started to snow.
He looked out the window excited, inspired. Though it was getting late, he was not feeling tired. Another new poem he was waiting to write before he was ready to blow out the lights.
So many years later this poem was found when some workers were digging deep under the ground. The poet had vanished, no corpse and no bones, just a memory lost in the gray castle stones.
Asbury Park, New Jersey