DNA

There is indeed magic in this world,
Not of mana and incantations,
But the realm of nature,
Not of glyphs and sorcery,
But of our verdant mother,

The spells she wields,
Those helixes of code,
They are in perpetual flux,
Building blocks on an atomic scale,
Altered slightly in every iteration,

The marvels she summons are indeed magical,
Species and races and every tint of the rainbow,
Our mutations are the gifts she enchants us with,
Our differences are the witchcraft in our human coven,
In the magic of our DNA.

Possession

I once spent an evening with an angel,
And heavenly she was,
Aside from some goetic tattoos here and about,
But something transpired,
A force took hold of her,

The conversation turned increasingly esoteric,
Her words became sulphuric heat,
Forked tongues in each breath,
Onyx veils covered her eyes,
Stifling any humanity,

Her face became a mask,
Contorted and almost pliable,
An unknown presence lay behind it,
A baneful weight,
A malevolence,

The air felt heavy in her presence,
Like breathing in spiteful ash,
I asked her what she was,
She grinned,
And those were no longer human fangs.

Crowmother

I heard tell of a witch,
A maiden in this harvest season,
A lady in an obsidian regalia,
Where she walks the flock congregates,
A winged host of subjects,
Upon her word do they fly,
She walks paths lost to man,
She is the mother of ravens,
She is never alone,
She is nature,
She is death,
She carries the murder in her soul,

The Morrigan

Culinary Art

The kitchen is a workshop of a different kind,
With its own arsenal of craftsmen’s tools,
Knife and stove,
Whisk and cutting board,
It’s a form of alchemy,
Culinary magic,
If cast by a maestro,
An ambrosia made at home,
Via a process in artful motion,
The scents play a symphony in the air,
Following a conductor of a culinary edge,
From the humble ingredients,
Bland and squatting in the pantry,
To dishes worthy of an empress,
Regal and flawless in execution,
Euphoria for ones tongue.

Mandrake

It’s finally supper time,
Our nightly ritual,
The victims are already at the trough,
But I’m missing a vital component,
The broth is incomplete,
This little mandrake,
It’s just the ticket,

This earthy fruit of foulness,
It will sent them careening into fantasy,
A final dream for the little souls,
Hallucinogens to cleanse the pallette,
Before the poison does its deed,
This heathenry,
It shall be akin to sorcery,

Into the soup you go,
Keep it quiet now,
My little botanical homunculus,
Dont reveal yourself to them,
You may appear infantile,
A parody of a child,
But you’re a monster tonight.

Witch Totem

I once dreamed of a forest,
A place I was drawn to wander,
There was a sweet perfume of witchcraft,
A fantasy,
Or a nightmare,
It was hard to tell,

Ghostly groves,
And dead branches charred by mana,
A godless arboretum,
A land bereft of deities,
Even the sun seemed timid,
Overcast through the gnarled boughs,

A witch resides here,
Or so i’ve heard,
And I believe the tales,
I spy her totems,
Omens to intruders like me,
Mandrake and hemlock,

Bones of vermin,
And dead sticks,
Affixed with aged catgut,
Into a crooked symbol,
Icons of her sorcery,
They hum with ancient words,

The sun flees,
The trees grow silent,
The atmosphere closes ranks,
I felt a cold hand on my shoulder,
And gelid breath upon my ear.

Sorcery

A hat to look the part,
A familiar for companionship,
An inferno to awe,
A hex to transfix,
A chant to bewitch.

A potion to fall in love,
A ward to soothe heartbreak,
An alchemical formula to rebuild,
A lightning bolt to annihilate,
A typhoon to punish.

A wand to focus your might,
A word of power to challenge the gods,
An enchantment for sustenance,
A bound angel for heavenly guidance,
A pact with evil for infernal privilege.

Witch, wizard or warlock,
You choose your own magic,
You choose your own brand of sorcery,
You choose your own way.