From the Skin of My Witchy Witch Witch

Posted by Erik Moshe on Thursday, August 27, 2015 Under: Poetry
I wring my hands behind me, casually, the ones tied up
to a deadwood post. Elevated on a makeshift throne
where the villagers intend to murder a gal like me
with a bit of displaced flame and hijacked psyche.
I weigh my options.
1) If I'm successfully roasted in Salem as planned
and I resurrect into the Black Realm, I can start
a DIY pet business raising Cerberus dogs
2) I can be a housekeeper of some sort for an ephemeral being
3) Every town needs a potion-maker, just like every war
needs a piston maker. The undead clientele listings...
Other options are muddled at the moment
as a brave young boy - look at his reddish curls
and executioner's posture, oh how adoring
Eyes like small silver flares as he drops a torch
into the pile of steaming wood

Crows look down on the scene from distant trees
Even they refrain from merciful looks
I could not be like them if I wanted to be
free to roam, peck corpses, appear somber
and catch worms; I do love a good hobby
Sharpening my agricultural techniques
for cultivating poisonous apples, or
forcing a child to eat their parents in the spring fauna
while I read a hearty tale from the book
of Nihilist's Hellfire Anthology

In : Poetry 



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