Tahira Parveen Poet Rhyme

Notes About The Poem

Ritual of the Devoured Soul

The Small Print of the Black Mass

To steal the power from the newly dead,
Through blackened magic where the demons tread,
You beckon the spirit from the darkest plane,
And feast on the flesh to assume its reign.
From the dirt of the grave, the monsters shout:
"Feed me! Feed me!" as the lights go out.
The flesh turns to liquid, it slithers right down,
To grant you the strength of a forbidden crown.
But a consumed spirit will fight to be free,
Unless you can bind it where no one can see.
So you drag the ghost to the deepest abyss,
And curse it with crimes in the dark's prejudice.
You lock it away in a chamber of screams,
To rot in the static of shattered dreams.
Yet the path to this knowledge is steep and unkind:
You must enter hell's back door and lock it behind.
You hide the key in a desolate place,
And pray that a righteous hand leaves no trace.
For the Book of Sin doesn't offer a lie
The small print catches the arrogant eye:
The contract is absolute, heavy, and cold,
A willing soul, and a payment in gold.
Or a pillar of salt you will turn.

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