Maudlin masses reincarnate, in the hastening haze
Opaque apparitions, from a dire netherworld phase
Under a leaden, lightening sky, they rise to breathe
Revenants of the conjured, with lost life they weave
No one will see them, for they're just mourning mist
Idly reforming to reignite, their unholy, soulless tryst
Nebulous, tormented spirits, that even gods forsake
Gather till the sun overshadows, what they replicate
Mourning infuses with the day, above those interred
In a pentagram, rites await, the necromancer's word
Someone tonight will recite, the litanies for the dead
Their wicked art cloistered, but not their eyes, of red
Nice poem.
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