The air was still, silent; around the stygian space
There flickers the candlelight, the only source of warmth,
Emboldening the student to set his eyes upon the words
Printed on dozens of books that add pressure to his table.
Late it was, the clock had struck midnight,
But the student kept on lucubrating, flipping the pages
Ad infinitum, as the sound of rustling, dogeared sheets
Made up the only fleeting tone at this impelling time.
As time passed, his vision blurred,
He could only made himself closer to the books,
As if they were his kiss of life, the wellspring of glory
That he would show, tomorrow, as he penned his words on paper.
Facts, diagrams, suggested answers and reminders
Were culled from the words and cached in his memory,
Serving as a chemical fount that he could search for answers,
Just like a library inside his skull.