Sitting in front of a fireplace
The size of hell
Surrounded by musty
leather bound books
on old mahogany bookshelves
the calligrapher pierced
The flesh of his beautiful visitors
With a gold fountain pen
Stealing their stories
Straight from their veins
Before wiping his pen clean
On an exquisite sheet of parchment
He wrote slowly and methodically
Using the blood of his lovers
In place of ink….
Outside, a suffocating fog
Wraps itself around the old mansion
Like a ghostly caress
Visual imagery winds itself tightly
Around his grey matter
Like poison Ivy
Squeezing the creativity
From his mind…..
Tinctures and potions are the precursors to feeling emotions
But they unleashed a monster…
The calligrapher walks up the hill
To the frost bitten grave stones
With their tiny life stories
He burns a bouquet of flowers
While planting the seeds of evil
Then rests a while on a carpet
Of decomposing leaves….
Back inside he uses a red-hot blade
To cauterise your wounds
As a fever burns through his soul
Then he continues to sit
In front of hell
Writing beautiful calligraphy
In the blood of his lovers…

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