In my private room where a fire brims,
to abate the chill as shadows dance
in flickered flashing dreams of sin,
licking walls like tongues of demon souls, do they,
grasping for a glimpse of life, an earthly plight,
a lost memory of what it is to be whole.
And as I sit upon my chair,
book in hand while illusions play my grim despair,
and hallowed halls filled with specters,
hidden souls of hell now breached,
looking for mischief and a body to leach,
do find my chamber dark.
Shadows now of faces bleak,
allude to all the lost one’s speak,
chanting voices of ill-intent do writhe,
and rippling forms on walls imbibe
those darkened souls of nether bound,
arisen to play and in life profound, illicit grief.
And as my book engrosses mind
and words a flicker by firelight, rhyme,
surrounded by these ghosts of old,
their rustic minds and memories seeking hold,
voices now resound in garbled din,
pleading, moaning and beguiling.
I shut that book and send them home,
fire breached and night forlorn,
back to whence they came from death
life departed and now bereft,
their dance is old and shadows fine,
nothing more can they find,
in this my chamber dark.
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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