An Ancient Futile Rite

Black candles Made from slaughtered infants’ fat Grace the points of a pentagram Writ large in virgins’ blood; They light-up occult inscriptions And the twisted face That mouths their sounds In the eldritch exclamations Of spells that had lain dead For who knows how many years ‘Til this purposeless & empty fool Had flailed about & struck upon An evil path to tread In a spate of catastrophic luck; He cast about & struck upon The dark & narrow way … Read on…