Blood Writes

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.

 

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