Never Contact the Dead

She cloaks herself in death’s sweet kiss,

comforting herself in black velvet and sandalwood to camouflage decay.

Her glass-covered casket

houses a beautiful corpse:

pale, porcelain doll

with sunken eyes,

blessed by self-made herbs and potions

coveted closely in a former life.

Surfaces are illusions,

hiding rot that festers deep inside.

Within intentionally silent mouth,

blackened tongue deceptively sleeps.

Forked with poison,

stained with a soul that has soured over decades,

one that filled those who would fall for banshee’s call,

with falsehoods of a putrid kind.

Her crooked fingers

once mastered the art

of marionette,

playing puppetry with souls empty,

lapping hungrily at the doorway

of false enchantments.

Don’t tread too closely,

a sorceress’s bride will surprise,

and snatch your soul from your quaking lips;

Equip a shovel at your side.

Witchcraft works quick,

so it’s wise to away hurried.

Demons are best kept

when eternally buried.