In shadowed vaults where candles weep,
a hornèd sovereign bends to read—
his claws like midnight scythes that keep
the parchment’s pulse beneath their need.
The pages breathe in sulfur light,
each letter a small, trembling soul;
the demons lean, their eyes ignite,
and listen as the verses roll.
A forest groans, roots clutch the tome,
a lion-king with embered gaze
devours the script where phantoms roam,
their wails the choir of ancient days.
From bat-winged dusk to ghostly throng,
the book unfurls its iron song—
a covenant of fang and flame,
where every word is bound by name.
No thunder speaks, no trumpet calls;
only the hush of turning leaves,
and beasts that kneel in haunted halls
to learn what darkness still believes.
Beneath the arches, stained with time,
the candles gutter, low and slow;
their waxen tears in crooked line
trace sigils only shadows know.
The sovereign’s breath is furnace-hot,
it curls across the gilded edge;
each syllable he speaks is wrought
from iron oaths and broken pledge.
Around him, imps with jagged grins
press closer, hungry for the lore;
their wings like tattered raven skins
beat softly on the stone-cold floor.
The book itself is older than
the stars that fell in primal night;
its binding stitched by mortal hand,
yet sealed by something without light.
A single page, when turned, reveals
a map of veins in crimson ink—
the paths where every secret heals
or festers on the razor’s brink.
The lion-king, in forest deep,
stands taller than the twisted trees;
his mane a storm where tempests sleep,
his roar the hymn that brings them peace.
The ghosts that circle, pale and thin,
are echoes of the ones who tried
to read aloud and draw within
the power that the book denied.
They reach with fingers made of mist,
their mouths forever forming pleas;
the words they speak are always missed—
lost syllables on phantom breeze.
And still the beasts in silence wait,
their eyes reflecting candle-glow;
they know the cost, they know the weight
of knowledge that was never meant to know.
The hornèd one lifts up his head,
the chamber holds its breath in dread;
for in the margin, freshly bled,
a name appears—alive, unread.
The forest quakes, the candles sway,
the ghosts fall back in sudden fear;
the lion’s roar begins to fray
the edges of the atmosphere.
The book is closing, slow and sure,
its pages folding like a wing;
the darkness gathers, thick and pure,
and silence is the final thing.
Yet in that hush, a spark remains—
a single ember, fierce and bright—
it waits within the reader’s veins
to burn again in endless night.
a hornèd sovereign bends to read—
his claws like midnight scythes that keep
the parchment’s pulse beneath their need.
The pages breathe in sulfur light,
each letter a small, trembling soul;
the demons lean, their eyes ignite,
and listen as the verses roll.
A forest groans, roots clutch the tome,
a lion-king with embered gaze
devours the script where phantoms roam,
their wails the choir of ancient days.
From bat-winged dusk to ghostly throng,
the book unfurls its iron song—
a covenant of fang and flame,
where every word is bound by name.
No thunder speaks, no trumpet calls;
only the hush of turning leaves,
and beasts that kneel in haunted halls
to learn what darkness still believes.
Beneath the arches, stained with time,
the candles gutter, low and slow;
their waxen tears in crooked line
trace sigils only shadows know.
The sovereign’s breath is furnace-hot,
it curls across the gilded edge;
each syllable he speaks is wrought
from iron oaths and broken pledge.
Around him, imps with jagged grins
press closer, hungry for the lore;
their wings like tattered raven skins
beat softly on the stone-cold floor.
The book itself is older than
the stars that fell in primal night;
its binding stitched by mortal hand,
yet sealed by something without light.
A single page, when turned, reveals
a map of veins in crimson ink—
the paths where every secret heals
or festers on the razor’s brink.
The lion-king, in forest deep,
stands taller than the twisted trees;
his mane a storm where tempests sleep,
his roar the hymn that brings them peace.
The ghosts that circle, pale and thin,
are echoes of the ones who tried
to read aloud and draw within
the power that the book denied.
They reach with fingers made of mist,
their mouths forever forming pleas;
the words they speak are always missed—
lost syllables on phantom breeze.
And still the beasts in silence wait,
their eyes reflecting candle-glow;
they know the cost, they know the weight
of knowledge that was never meant to know.
The hornèd one lifts up his head,
the chamber holds its breath in dread;
for in the margin, freshly bled,
a name appears—alive, unread.
The forest quakes, the candles sway,
the ghosts fall back in sudden fear;
the lion’s roar begins to fray
the edges of the atmosphere.
The book is closing, slow and sure,
its pages folding like a wing;
the darkness gathers, thick and pure,
and silence is the final thing.
Yet in that hush, a spark remains—
a single ember, fierce and bright—
it waits within the reader’s veins
to burn again in endless night.
The Sunday Circle