CXXVII.

  With a sudden twitch, she woke up in the midst of dim light;

  A smouldering candle gracing her with a wistful incense.

  She lifted her weary head from the black book of great importance,

  Which dutifully waited for her during the dreamy night.

  Perching her lips, she blew towards the candle, lighting it

  Brightly in a bluish flame, illumining the unlit

  Surrounding in a kind azure blanket. She could not recite

  The lateness of the hour, and frankly, cared not for such insight.

  CXXVIII.

  One could not say when the goddess would return, to be made aware

  Of exactly which knowledge the girl had now been provisioned with;

  Time was of the essence if she were to unravel this myth.

  She rubbed her red rimmed eyes and resumed the scholarly affair.

  Knowledge hath always been what she had craved so wondrously,

  Doubly so when it spawned the Witch’s scorn so utterly.

  Indeed, the lore of the grimoire possessed much to beware,

  Yet still, much more for those who stood on the brink of despair.

  CXXIX.

  The grimoire’s author spent ample amounts of precious time

  Developing the beguiling “languor’s powder,” which was the salve

  Of probable salvation of that daring night’s resolve.

  She tracked his mind’s passageways, as they traced his arduous climb

  Beginning at the start, and then towards the final yield:

  The fruit of his wondrous labour. Not a step was to be concealed.

  This black book read less like a piece of a researcher’s rhyme,

  And rather more akin to a diary of his whole lifetime.

  CXXX.

  His frustrations, his goals, his beliefs. His eternal fight

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  In deepest reaches of his soul, to soothe the old warlord

  Who shared his mind. He’d often befall to his frenzied sword;

  His ruthless rage, which caused his sordid banishment and flight

  Into this old, decrepit, and forgotten place of rest.

  Here he could escape all people-folk and prevent needless unrest.

  Thus, he began his life of a hermit, a monk, wanting to light

  Up his soul’s own darkened shadows, end his everlasting plight.

  CXXXI.

  This pathway led him to discover the potent abilities

  Of alchemical concoctions that reason would return,

  If only for a little while. Alas, while this did adjourn

  His hospice of the god, calming his mental faculties,

  The powder had a sinister side. At first, unnoticeable,

  However, year after year of prolonged, inexplicable

  Use caused him to spend time and again in lazing, nigh infinities;

  At the edge of his self, creeping further into fragility.

  CXXXII.

  For the while the god had slept, none of them could control or steer

  The wretched reigns; indeed, both had succumbed to the potency

  Of this compelling substance. None could escape its cogency.

  A fate of his own creation. A path forever clear,

  With no other end but an ever-closing final breath.

  A stifling melody, which could only ever end with death.

  The girl felt shudders down her spine which carried looming fear,

  Yet knew there was a way to shirk this fate at which she sneered.

  CXXXIII.

  This concoction, she memorised by heart and would prepare

  Her first batch in the coming day. This much she knew was vital,

  As she slowly began to hear echoes of the voice titled

  In the farthest reaches of her vessel, the sewing of the tear.

  She closed the grimoire, and with a wave sent it gliding toward

  A bookcase nearby. Afterwards, she did again afford

  The help of the flow up the steps of wind into her lair

  Of circumstance, and thought about the tomorrow’s burial prayer.