The musty couch is sinking low.
Rips mar its skin, and even though
I stuffed a pillow down its crack
the wooden frame sticks in my back.
My eyes close and my breathing slows.

As winter night-time coldness grows,
A nest of blanket shields my nose.
The dog, a breathing leg-warm sack,
atop the musty couch.

The fire now a fading glow,
I hear a wounded raven crow
outside this lonely hermits shack.
Through wind and rain and creak and crack
I dream that I drift to and fro
atop the musty couch.

my first attempt at a rondeau. wot do you think? ^^