Crawling up the thorny walk,
the visitors arrive in stride
to play the game they plan to host,
forbidden to the living sort
(Though you secure you're in control,
you don't posses a chance in truth)
The visitors have rules beyond
a signature, an oath, a palm
It's not a mortal type of game
It's more a permanent charade
where visitors insist to stay
(For in your flesh they hide away)
You're dormant far beyond control
and simply clothes to fit the soul
these visitors, they hear your call
In candlelight: the seance ball
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