(A Samhain Invocation)

The veil thins like torn silk,

Frayed at the edges where shadows crawl,

Night spills its ink across the sky,

And for once, just this once,

We are not afraid of the dark.

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The air crackles with an ancient breath,

Whispers from the underworld rise like smoke,

Curling through the cracks in the ground.

It is the night when the dead wear their names again,

When skulls sing songs of forgotten fire.

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We gather under the black eye of the moon.

Our hands hold more than candles,

More than just wishes…

We hold the weight of our ancestors;

The quiet knowing of those who’ve crossed the line

Between flesh and spirit.

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They walk with us now;

Feel them, as the wheel spins faster. 

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A circle, drawn not in chalk but in salt,

In blood, in sweat, in the body of the Earth.

Samhain.  

The turning. The cutting.

The breaking open of the time between times.

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I reach out with my soul; my tongue; my fingers.

This is not a feast;

Not a dance for the living.

This is an invocation;

A celebration of endings and beginnings.

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The magick is in the silence.

The waiting.

The listening for the footsteps that have long faded.

Yet we still hear them, don’t we?

In the crunching of the leaves; the rustle of the wind. 

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Tonight, we are the bridge.

The living tether between two worlds.

The words we whisper are not for the living;

They are for the dead.

And the dead are listening. 

(C)BobChristian