Séance

The candle danced with ghostly grace,

Its flame a grin on death’s pale face.

It spun and hissed, a banshee’s wail,

Then traced a sigil in the veil.

The shadows clapped, the mirror cracked,

A whisper said, “You can’t go back.”

Cold fingers brushed the séance ring,

The air grew thick with something’s wing.

It paused—then leapt into the gloom...

And left behind a scent of tomb.

 

Done