Psychedelic swirls in the womb of night,
The ghosts rise, hungry, for the sacred rite.
He touched her forehead, soft as a sigh,
Retracing memories where lost stars lie.

"You are misplaced," he murmured low,
"Led astray by the rivers' flow."
Her mind unravels, a fragile thread,
Dancing now with the living dead.

The violin weeps, it shatters the void,
A somber hymn both sharp and cloyed.
"Twirl for me," he said, "don’t fear the flame,
The watchers are here—they know your name."

The ghosts surround in a velvet trance,
Eyes like embers, they burn, they dance.
Their touch is smoke, their gaze a maze,
A fiery mirror of forgotten days.

Lost in the rhythm, the void in bloom,
Spinning through the door of doom.
She feels the pull of the stars' decay,
A psychedelic hymn to lead astray.

The night hums low, a growling beast,
Its jaws wide open for the soul’s feast.
He takes her hand—she feels the spark,
A haunting waltz through endless dark.

"Rise," they chant, "to the other side,
Lose your fear, let the moment abide."
The ghosts dissolve with the breaking dawn,
But their song lingers long after they’re gone.