The Witching Hour

Dance to complete my circle,
feeling mist tickling bare skin,
chanting words in a rhythmic time.
Place the urn made of tin
upon the blood red cloth.

Fingers caress the flames
as each candle is lit.
Burning flesh contaminates the air
but let the sage replenish it.
Keep in time as the air goes cold.

Call upon those who frighten us,
the ones who consume our soul.
Ask them for a favor
looking into black eyes of coal
only to be mocked and beaten.

Reverse your steps and the words.
Take back everything you have said.
It won't matter how much remorse you feel
by morning, for you'll be dead.
You should have listened better.
To never go out during the witching hour.