Binding Bone, Henbane Wight
“Low twisted bone to spirits bind, a fallen night of grief.
A hollow where the marrow left a solemn word’s belief.
With words are bound the conjured one, for soon it will deliver.
A vessel to hold those things held dear, a vein like life’s dark river.
The busy bustle of henbane pods, bursting full of seed.
Their tiny forms hide vast secrets of ancient witch’s deed.
The smoke that drifts from censer hung above that circle described,
summons forth the spirit called and bound in bone here circumscribed.
Three poppy sullen and lost, its milk a painless curse.
The dreams it makes of phantasy tell endless seas of verse.
An offering made of dried pods, whose names in blood are signed.
A hex upon those who’d break the seal of darkness now enshrined.”