The grimoire reeks of damp leather and spit. Raising the dead won’t do itself. Stars glitter at the window while I keep transfiguring bodies. I read the words; they’re half my voice and half death’s pet. The nearest creature wakes, flaps its newborn wings; it twitches violently, coming alive.
My humour is excellent tonight. A priest’s torso with the wings of a bat.
Others turn, indifferent and hungry. Time to feed them some townsfolk.
moonlight’s thin fingers
lick dust from forgotten bones—
night exhales ash
Third Eye Horror
© Maciej Sitko, 2025
All rights reserved.
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Great imagery! I love a short and creepy poem.