The spells ignite.
The runes writhe and undulate to
make strong the binding spells that
keep me here among
the ivory skulls
and black candles.
The innocent blood
in the ink jar
smells like copper roses.
A scarlet droplet
poised on a silver nib
shines in the firelight,
an unholy star
chained to hell.
It desires to spread
and seep into the vellum,
recording for all time
the gibbering words and thoughts
of madmen,
and the noble speeches of
martyrs and kings.
More often than not,
blood writes them
the very same.
BlackQuill 