Witching Song

She came treading pale footsteps,

in the light of eternal moon,

broken rays intertwining in twigs and leaves,

of darkened spindle finger canopies,

in stare of black bark faces in the trees,


Dripping down her to her feet,

cloaked in black wax ruffled lace,

tracing the hem of a drawstring skirt,

licking the dust of ashen forest floor,

the dark green rope flowers with a hinted hue of dirt,


Pale chin exposed beneath a veiled hood,

golden chain dwindling in her bosom,

reflecting stolen light from the moon,

behind freshly picked nightshade,

black berries against paper white skin,


Humming to rhythmic gusts of wind,

and in time with hooting owls,

the slow crawl of a witching spell,

echoed into the sleeping straw thatched hut,

playing at the lighted candle in the eyes of maiden,


Spying from her cottage window,

on every full moon,

she saw the witch's splendor,

the magical flame of silent green fire,

flickering through the woods into her ears.


She longed to join her song,

and dance to the sounds of streams at night,

in the forbidden light of the moon,

answer the howling calls of wolves,

in the low hum of chanting spells,


Some night,

Some night,

For now she only watched,

green eyes glinting in playful flame,

dancing to the witching song


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