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.
BlackQuill 