Pentastich

I get out of bed. It's dark outside. I go to the living room and sit down. I don't turn on the TV. I just sit silently. The silence is palpable. More real than real sound would be. This is what the wee hours of the morning sound like. I hear nothing but the tinnitus in my head. I pour a glass of wine. I sit at my computer. I decide to write a pentastich.

time goes by
the candle grows short
wax runs down
soon a burnt wick
grows from a waxy puddle

There you go. It’s late. I’m going to bed. Goodnight.