Photo by RODNAE Productions on Pexels.com

Like the smooth skin

Of the blind finger

Feeling it’s way to the message

So it is with The Grimoire


All she can do

Is imagine its thick leather surface

Rippled with gold foil

Balancing its heft

Upon palms of outstretched arm

In center of mind’s eye


All she can do is pull it in close

And take in the spectral aroma

Of woodsmoke and incense

Visioning what

Struggles and twists to become


Such a troubled birthing this has been

Starts and fits and ends

Over and over, trying to complete

Over and over, attempting to download


The message

Too large, whipping with tendrils

Of eons and voices and symbol

She can’t even comprehend



From long ago

This pen and paper attempting

As lightning rod

For a thousand hungry-ghost cloud

Looming, circling, beating


To enter,


To tell


Of hoping


Final release


Many lifetimes

Many medicines


They clamber

Vying for one electric stream

Attempting in such capacity

To fit into one tiny arm

It shakes, it aches

And mind trembles

Finally collapsing

Into blankness



Squeezing her Will

Under quivering hand

She feels, faintly

A loose form

Starting to rise


Perhaps, today


Somehow it will embody

Those gilded edges

That smoke-blessed page

Perhaps, today


It will make it through


But, she shudders

What be its cost, madness?

The price of birth, death?

Will body frame crumble

Leaving only book behind

Switching place of essence

Book to form, scribe to wind?


Only these types of questions

Soothe her while she stares at blank page

That such a channeling

Is really of grand importance

That only gods and demons and

Threats of death and annihilation

That only the battles of all lifetimes

And the resistance to Sacrifice


Can explain


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