Palimpsest

Writing upon the scroll, year after year day after day the monk lives for the painted work He prays and draws He prays and writes Eloquent brushstrokes fall like soldiers into place. Who can say that not an inch beneath them lies an army of letters too vulgar for the eye to see too forbidden for the soul to taste. Lost in his set serenity, the monk takes no heed of the bewailing clamour the ships, the heathen helmets and the crowd. Lost in his world he covers the threatening set of words, ignoring that in seconds he'll be a hidden palimpsest a human palimpsest beneath a crust of curdled blood.