The Writer’s Face

The grandfather clock struck,
signaling two hours past midnight,
I looked up,
and caught a glimpse of my visage,
in the looking glass,
shaded by the warm yellow light of the candle’s glow,

The face of a writer,
weathered and worn,
hair gone wild,
eyes sagging,
lines carved into skin,
from too many years squinting,
shadowed and grim,

the face of a man with,
stories to tell,
the face of a man,
with too man stories,
kept within.