Bronze dead chattels,

Fading to grey, in the mist. The veil ascends.

Catch it before it clutches you.

 

They are waiting, patiently eager,

Vibrating into view, atrophied senses, madness-inducing.

Dimensional shrouds have their limits.

 

The whiskey slowly warms,

Burn the fire, oxygen combusts, creating florescent beings.

Gatherings create havens for the living.

 

The dead are beyond.

Do not let the Mephistopheles trick you of your elemental form.

Dybbuk will cede your soul.

 

Let the light burn, even if it is within you.

 

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