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After the coven convention had brought fear to all but bewitched hearts
I narrated tales by lantern light; of a foul and fledgling land’s demise.
Betwixt the wicker’s orange flame. Whose pointed tongue exuded soot,
I yearned to convey in more than oil, of hearts captured by a galere’s seine.
All night did I saunter by. Among the witches ominous chants.
Nonplussed by spells that echoed through the gloom.
Cacophonous be the cloudless sky, where all birds were as shadowed wraiths.
Squawking through the midnight air. Rent by fear—White from fright.
By fog-filled bogs where shadows dance. I asked why craven hearts in fear do burn?
In cities, covens are reduced to tales, but in country plains, yokels shake.
And to them who walk by day, sunset brings a heart on edge, in the commons where the covens are, where curses arrive on wrinkled palms.
Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of the images in this post.
