Tell Me
Her putrid tree limbs
hold the glass in magnetic swain
Her Latin chants and mumbles
Drawing power from the shadows
that wear her like a shroud
As her chant crescendos
Mirrored mist moves within its
twisted silver frame
Darkness stumbles into light
Images punch and falter
Grasping tendrils
trail the mirror
from the other side
tasting for a way through
Her voice now guttural
Scream and grunts
Shes dead now
No more excuse
Tell me
Who is the fairest of them all?
Copyright © Christopher Quigley | Year Posted 2020
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