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How easy it is to judge 

from the throne of 

self-righteousness. 

How comforting to

cast off what 

doesn't fit our

moral code.

Perspective is 

colored by our own 

evolution and lingering 

insecurities.  

The soul of a scribe

cannot help but 

share truths

that set spirits

free, no matter 

the cost of their 

own liberty. 
 

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I weep for his skills:

                the perfect crafting

                of the calligraphy

She sighed, "Forge me the seal of our love"

She sighed, "Render yourself to me"

She sighed, "I am your vellum"

I weep for her artistry

He saw the curves, the loops, the cursive strokes:

                flow smoothly from his nib

                harmoniously

  ...

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Dust motes flare bright as falling stars above his sacred work,
his skillful strokes slash at the demons skin,
interlocking prayers his only protection
from the nightmare trapped by walls of cinnabar and ultramarine.
It coils, threatening to leap into the eyes of any who gaze into its charred-bone face
bleeding into the minds fibres, it's most cunning trick.
Its likeness, flayed as ...

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