There is high demand for magic, When kings have no fire. They want spells, not trials. Curses, not justice. Mold his shape from wax and bone, Carve his name in copper stone. Stick the needle. Say it slow. The name of him. And the name below. At midnight - burn it in the grate. Watch his soul disintegrate. Bronze pin. Beeswax. Crows in flight. And sleep like kings. Tonight. Tongue of the hanged, blood of the bat, Whispers curled in a coffin hat. Drink the wine. Swallow the sin. Speak the word. Let doom begin. No prayers. No light. No bells to warn. Just fire and ash - and the shape unborn. Eye of goat and gall of snake, Feather soaked in sinner’s ache. The tongue of who betrayed your trust, Ground in mortar, turned to dust. Virgin’s hair and midnight soil, Saint’s defrocked and cursed in oil. Add the blood of bats and bees And your words will bend the seas. Take the tongue. Take the wine. Take what’s holy. Make it mine. Whisper backward. Sing through thread. Wake the names of all the dead. Tongue of the hanged, heart in flame, Call them down. Speak their name! No mercy now. No way to run. What’s been cursed cannot be undone. O spirits dark, O wrathful choir This is the shape of our desire. If you don’t believe - then pray. If you believe you’re already prey.
