In the heart of the forest, where shadows conspire,
Lies a waxen relic of unholy fire.
A candle black as a raven’s wing,
Whose light unveils the cursed and unseen.
“Light it not!” the villagers warned,
“For it summons the damned and the forlorn.”
But curious hands could not refrain,
From striking the match that sparked the bane.
Its flickering glow, a hypnotic hue,
Turned the room cold, though flames were few.
Whispers rose in the chilling breeze,
A dirge of the lost through the ancient trees.
The candle’s flame danced with eerie grace,
Casting shadows with no rightful place.
Figures emerged from the gloom and mist,
Ghostly hands clenched in spectral fists.
A woman of sorrow, her face half-decayed,
Spoke in a voice that time betrayed:
“Return what was taken, undo the sin,
Or the curse of the candle will never rescind.”
But the one who lit it stood their ground,
Defiant still as the horrors abounded.
“You are but shades, I fear you not!
Your tales are but tricks that time forgot!”
The flame roared high, a vortex of night,
Swallowing all in its merciless plight.
When dawn arrived, no soul was found,
Only the candle on scorched blackened ground.
Its flame remains, silent and still,
A promise of vengeance, a fate to fulfill.
So heed this tale, and let it remind,
Some curiosities are best left confined.
For the curse of the candle is not a jest,
And those who test it find no rest.