Blood Writes

The spells ignite in the light of a dying sun.

The runes dance and undulate to form

the binding

that keeps me here.

The blood of the innocent

smells like dead roses

inside

the ink jar.

The scarlet droplet is poised

on the silver nib of the

black quill, ‘

waiting to be spread

like an offering,

to seep into the deep vellum,

recording for all time

the midnight ramblings

of madmen,

and the noble deeds of kings.

Embellished on the banished ether

into eternal celestial splendor,

even if our curious eyes

will never read them.

 

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