A Witch's Voice.
Here in this forest of primordial mysteries
I have not knowledge, but knowing, whispered secrets
Of the Ancient Ones, of the fae,
Themselves elemental spirits of the wood,
Cloaked, they’re soundlessly watching with interest: my
Movements with the familiar wild
Curiosity of nature, the cloistered
Sanctuary of my Ancestors, they’re hushed abundant
Murmurs to be surmised something more than wind.
Witch, Shadow Weaver, dances, her animated silhouette
In Salem on Devil’s Night, chanting her incantations
Between the Oak and Black Birch saplings,
She twists a malediction in a Witch’s Voice.
To those who live in the center of cities
A Witch in the forest glade or grove, appears
To be mad. A strange apparition
Appearing for the purpose of manifesting
A hex intended; the same compulsion feared,
But it’s justice that the Witch shall render
Unto the guilty offender, in spite of a remorseful
Plea for mercy, it’s the final silent
Hour when the imbued breath, the powerful whisper
Will carry forward intended demands of retribution, unwavering
Control beyond mundane influences, influences forgotten
After the casting. Straddling the hedge,
A natural ability, she knows the results
Of such workings in alignment with karmic balance,
Equivalent exchange, ferried by a Witch’s Voice.