On Parchment
A swirling stroke of pen to make words spill across the page. A sword of gold bequest unto the reader of the tales they tell.
The battle forms. The field is free. I tell of dragons dashing cross the sky that spill like stars, as shaken salt; scattered. A quest
for Gods to swing from the moon; I'd request he'd bless the older lovers and hear tell of lost journeys; on scrolls their stories spill.
Swords spill of quests that none will ever tell.
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