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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Horror/Scary · #2318266
For the Writer’s Cramp
An ancient witch stirs darkened brew
with bits of flesh and tail of shrew,
a drop of blood from eye of newt
dead leaves and weeds and ugly root;
She stands before her cauldron black,
lightning in night sky does crack;
She heeds the signs of ghostly moon,
and as brew boils and swells, she swoons
A vision floats before her eyes,
in her ears she hears the cries:
the plight of men from distant lands
to face horrors at white hands.
On new land their blood will spill,
stripped of rights, of life, free will
Oh! A horror, the witch does see,
rapes and murder—-calamity!
Men and women of her own skin
her sons and daughters, her brethren
and still the brew does tell her more:
men hung from trees amid shouts galore;
children chased by evil dogs
by men cloaked in sheets and fog—
The ancient witch who does see all
she sees her people rise and fall;
Would that she could cast a spell!
Save her people from this hell!
But alas! She can but see
she cannot stop this destiny
she cannot warn, she cannot plead
she cannot stop this travesty—
With an old serrated knife,
she will gauge her own two eyes,
curse this vision of foresight
beneath the glow of soft moonlight--
But the story will unfold
as through the brew it was foretold:
black men forced to leave their land,
to face horrors at white hands.
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