Well of Souls

The horse hair vibrates sweet the stringed note

Its color, ruby, rubbed across night’s ground

The moon, the violinist of the sound

That glides against the Well of Souls in gloat.

 

Too, nestled in its silhouette, a lute

Stained red does spew a spider’s threads—profound—

Of Music glist’ning amber in resound,

To amity afford the blushing route.

 

Explodes the demon’s wings behind the strings,

Her fingertips in strum of serenades

To gods immortal; footfalls on the trail

Betray the slender gait of holy mage

With magic’s thread of fate, the hand availed

Which tugs him forth to reap conviction’s wage.

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