The telltale drip of blackened blood
Oozing down
Pooling into
The groove above your upper lip
As it trickles
-tickles-
Your nose
Awakening the senses

Reminding you what it means to be alive,
Until
You're not.

Few Bards can touch such experience
But those that can, oh, those that can
Pierce the tip of their quill into the fleshy parchment
Thriving upon the blackened ink
Pooling into
The ink well.

Words speak of death
And through them, some may become

Immortal.
My quill falls short of flaying souls
Puncturing hearts to their root
I hope only my path
The path of the Dancer
My turns, my leaps
May one day bound into that mysterious void

Between art- and necessity
Between art- and creation
Creating life from death
Or teasing death of out of life's corners

Voyira rarely plagues me
My sword would sooner rust than stab a foe
But I keep it thirsty

With my own flesh-
As I twirl it above me
Taunt it with my Bladedance

Is immortality in my grasp, then?
It cannot be sealed within a missive
Or pressed neatly in a bound journal
It is watched in the moment, and then

Gone

This art is like the drip to me
Patiently waiting
Fervently working through my system
Until my organs burst from the exhilaration
Until my feet collapse

Perfection is not my goal
Just the desire to live art
Eternal.
Immortal.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Miraman, in the year 630 AF.