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
A child of demonology,
They told me how I was made,
By that blasted coven,
Possessed of dark magic and darker intents,
I was spawned by no natural means,
Formed by ritual in lieu of conception,
Dragged from the abyss,
From that infernal bubbling womb,
Scratching at the cast iron feebly,
The cold skin of this cauldron,
Contrasting against my seared ruby skin,
A mere fell homunculus,
Into that vessel they allotted great labour and pain,
Poisonous herbs of all shades and temperaments,
Liquid spite in floods,
Pigs hearts and crows eyes,
Galvanising the broth to rouse sorcerous nascency,
Magic to beget my fiendish form,
Why sire such an abomination?
Why bring evil to life?
For its own sake they told me,
I have no inherent goal,
No good reason to exist,
For I am cauldron-born.
Among the dank forests of mud and blood,
You catch the scent of cauldron glub,
Ingredients combined in a frenzied hubbub,
Magical energies coalesce in a flood,
Sticks and stones,
And forest animal bones,
Among leather-bound tomes,
Not to mention victims groans,
A hag lives here,
Behind mask fashioned from skull of deer,
And ornery robes of woolen shear,
Many centuries alive has this grey seer,
Dare you not irk her,
Lest you lose all your heads fur,
And see frogs pads where your hands were,
Followed of course by a cold grave inter.
Do you ever lay awake at night?
Beyond the turn of midnight,
Wondering why you weren’t enough,
Or how you could have performed differently,
Your mind painting new timelines,
Wishes upon tired stars,
The devils hour is thought sinister,
But bad karma only comes to those deserving,
It has become a stage for the crestfallen,
The night breeze is a fitting backtrack,
A subtle chill to the bone,
Numbing the body,
The demons of the hour recognise heartbreak,
For even they are angels to some,
They shall not bring more torment upon you,
They know your heart is the prime malignant harrier,
They spy the anguish on your cheeks,
The inconsolable tears upon your pillow,
This is no nightmare,
No black magic at work tonight,
No witchcraft or demonology,
This is simply a soul breaking down,
Heartbreak in the twilight,
A melancholy man or woman watched over by the moon,
This is real.
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.
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.
WorldofHarley 