Some might call him the Anglerfish.
Alone in the deepest sea, wrapped in
Cold, cloudy black, surrounded by
Hard rocks and coarse sand, closed out
From the world in his basement,
Accompanied only by the distant rain
And the hum of the digital tumble dryer.
Otherwise, it’s because he writes,
His desk light always shining
Above his head, lighting up a pool
Of white on his desk, bonding
With his characters, old and new,
On his private stage for scribbling.
World shaping, story making.