What cruel winds can be heard on a winters night
Shouting in high pitch screams like a beggars delight
Whispering the names of those you thought long gone
The twang of a harp string, played like an out of tune song
Blanked out by glass and wood, the pain in the Paine
Of the window, the flickering of a shadows name
The lantern smells like burnt oil and wax that has a black wick
On a table in a room, ghosts of the past is where I sit
Parchment, blank, empty, enchanting, beckoning
My words, my feelings, my spells, my calling
The feathers quill, dips like a hawks beak in a bloody morsel
When I write I feel, human. I am human; I am not magic at all
The runes magically appear on the sandy coloured parchment
Spiralling together like wild vines, supplementing the enchantment
The whites of my eyes peer from my dark hooded robe
My whispers sound like a 1000 horses to battle rode
My ringed fingers, and sharpened nails, guide along the page
Calling forth the spell, the spell that will free this mage.
