I remember that quill,
And the desiccated hand that led it,
Candles barely illuminating the dread at work,
Manipulated by the rotten hand of a poet,
Skeletal and rank fingers ushering the pens path,
Fetid flakes of flesh falling upon the page,

This ancient quill,
A veteran of many campaigns,
Wars of calligraphy and manuscripts,
Crafted from the feather of a long-extinct bird,
A yellowed shako worn atop,
This tool was marshal for the ink spot rank and file,

In this writing desk mortuary,
The musk of death runs deep,
Poet and pen rotting together,
Twin tombstones upon a page,
Writing like this is a form of necromancy,
Horror creating beauty.

Comments
  1. Deep! The pen can be mightier than the sword, shaper than a two edged blade. Beauty, healing and light can come from it too…therein perhaps, lies the paradox eh.

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