Necromancy

It is way down deep in Autumn on a dark, cold night.

I am becoming a patron of necromancy.

I give my feelings bone and blood, form skeletons,

I raise them up, from blackened inkblot holes.

On my paper exists a graveyard,

Where memory moans, like apparitions.

Spectral, spiritual, emotional creatures climb up,

Right out of my temporal lobe.

How grim my mind can be, when I write late at night.