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
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.