The Whisper of Spells

The Whisper of Spells

When night draws in and shadows hum,

I gather the quiet and breathe it deep,

The candles bloom in amber light,

And the air begins to shift and sigh.

Old words rise through the flicker of flame,

Soft as breath, slow as memory,

They curl around the edge of sound,

And carry truth from a hidden time.

The spell does not ask for power or fame,

It asks for heart, for the steady voice,

For trust in what cannot be seen,

For faith that the unseen listens.

I draw the circle, calm and clear,

Each motion carved from pure intent,

The room grows warm, the walls retreat,

And I am joined by silent eyes.

They are not ghosts, but echoes of will,

The ancient hands that once did the same,

Their whispers wrap around my thought,

And lend my words their quiet fire.

When the final word dissolves in air,

I feel the pulse of something vast,

Not darkness, not light, but both as one,

And I am still beneath its breath.