by Nick Gisburne
The doorway into darkness strains and cracks
It splinters, buckles, bends, as though to burst
Each woman holds an effigy in wax
They speak a spell and call upon the cursed
Their creatures, crushed together, merge as one
A miserable mockery of life
And, stepping through the portal, it is gone
It seeks the blade, the necromancer’s knife
For seven nights the witches watch and wait
The doorway, empty, offers nothing more
Their faith, their focus, does not deviate
And now, at last, it opens, as before
The knife, that stolen dagger of the dead
Returns, to slice the necromancer’s bread
