On the Writing of Runes

[coldjwplay]

Knife like ice
Caressing,
The fat flat of the blade rubbing greedily on its page:
Waiting,
Wondering
What secrets to impart.

Secrets don’t come cheap: there is always a price to be paid,
And sometimes,
The price is the process of learning them.

What secrets to unlock.
The runes are there already, their
Jagged slashes streaking
Through the rock,
Waiting for the knife
To unlock them
And set them free.

The knife waits. It has time. It slides up and it slides down, teasing.

Maybe the spreading roots,
Covered by soil.
Maybe the spreading branches,
Covered by leaves.
The secrets have to remain secret;
The knowledge must be unknown.

A scratch here;
A scratch there;
The message takes shape.

The canvas transforms, its creamy surface
Covered in crimson pencil lines,
Screaming their message as if everyone around were deaf to them.
The deafness is intentional. It’s upsetting to hear a scream. But still
The teller tells the tale.
It reads:

All we have
Is a crown
Of thorns.