Written in Blood
The end is here.
I’ve survived worse pain
and endured longer trials,
but my blood pulses
as it never has before—
ready to burst if necessary.
Every witch knows the ache
and knows what it means:
Death has arrived.
Our blood is desperate
to pass on its magic and legacy—
with or without cooperation.
With the energy I have left,
I reach for my knife
and slit open my skin,
letting my heartblood free.
The ache fades.
The pleased magic grants peace.
I watch in awe
as my blood slithers
to the book I made decades ago.
The cover falls open,
and my blood curls artfully
page after page.
I hope my blood remembers
to tell the story of my first spell.
I hope my blood remembers
how it felt to cast with my coven.
I hope my blood remembers
that magic is more than spells.
Comments
Post a Comment