The Archivist’s Relic crochet she called upon the deep

she called upon the deep

stepping behind her as she moves to the mirror

and the deepest brown

I wander where the edges of sleep fray

circling close with beads of light and colour

The Archivist’s Relic crochet she called upon the deepHidden beyond the velvet draped corridors and locked oak doors, there exists a library untouched by time a place where no footfalls echo, and every whisper is a trespass. It was there that the Archivist made her silent domain. She wore no titles but the weight of forgotten knowledge, no jewels but the simple relic at her throat: a chain of patient bronze, knotted in the old Byzantine weave, hung with pearls muted by centuries and a stone the colour of