Malice through the Looking Glass
They've left a candle smoking
neath the mirror's icy gaze
Freshly doused, invoking
spirits from the darker days.
They leave no smell, they leave no sound.
A soul-less souvenir.
Reflections of an empty room,
a face seems to appear.
A distant dirge is playing
weaving harmonies from hell
The ambience decaying
as piano morphs to bell.
The wick that smokes and smoulders
Sends its incense past the glass
The fingers on my shoulders say
my time has come to pass…
poem by Hola Mentirosa
Added by Poetry Lover
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