The magic spell enchanted the night
That was heavy with forgotten lore,
A spell cast deep from ages before.
In the heart of a forest, shrouded by despair.
Whispered incantations filled the midnight air,
The grimoire lay open, brittle and bare.
Candles flickered, casting shadows tall,
As darkness answered to every call.
With each word spoken, the wind did rise,
Howling like demons from the void of the skies.
The ground beneath trembled, cold and weak,
As if the earth itself had forgotten to speak.
A place that sought to summon the dead,
To awaken spirits long silent, long fled.
Through twisted trees, their faces did gleam,
Eyes hollow and lost, trapped in their dream.
The moon above was swallowed by clouds,
And the night descended in haunted shrouds.
Chants grew louder, desperate and wild,
For the dark arts, the chosen child.
The magic spell, dense in the aura, suffocating all,
A portal to the depths of some enchanted hall.
The spell worked its magic, cruel and vast,
Binding forever to shadows of the past.
Voices murmured from the stones nearby,
An echo of a curse that refused to die.
Through the mist they came, spirits long cursed,
Their hollow chuckle made the soul feel worse.
In horror, the spell took form,
A creature born of night, death, and storm.
It towered above, a phantom of dread,
Its eyes glowed crimson, its body of lead.
In a voice like thunder, it called a name,
“You summoned me forth; now you’re to blame.”
Mercy begged for, a will turned to dust,
But in the dark arts, mercy is rust.
The magic spell consumed all, a soul a mere husk,
Trapped in a world forever of dusk.
The spell woven became a cage,
An endless nightmare, an eternal stage.
Now, wandering these woods, lost in a trance,
Caught between realms, a prisoner of chance.
The spell never lifted, its grip iron-tight,
The magic spell, eternal, devoid of light.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
