Channeling Shadows

In the dim-lit chamber, the air grows thin.
The psychographer draws the specter in.
Quill in hand, trembling, eager to scribe.
Echoes of Poe dark whispers imbibe.

The raven stirs, though fleshless it stays.
Its shadow looms eternal in haze.
"Speak," pleads the vessel, a soul unwinded.
Through fingertips flows the long-silenced mind.

Words spill forth, grotesque and divine.
Lines of sorrow, of death’s cold design.
Each phrase etched in despair’s black tongue.
An ode to the lost, the morbid unsung.

Yet the hand falters the psyche strains.
Carving each word through spectral chains.
Does the spirit guide or does madness call?
Through Poe’s abyss the writer may fall.

A knock at the door, a chill in the room.
The ink runs thick with the scent of doom.
In channeling genius, a price is paid for...
For shadows linger and light no more.