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Piece from small collection of Scottish witch poetry I'm creating for my masters. |
Such a blessing, is the gift to create Ruin. I could watch you for hours, weaving lies into the fibres of truth; Deft hands spinning thread like a Spider, That carefully trim and cut Short the lives of seven souls, damned to hell by your Small hands. I hear you pray most nights, soft voice That spills poison into listening ears, And whispers gratitude from a mouth Blackened with the coal that chokes you in the night, black like Your heart which still thumps when the candles burn out. You ask for forgiveness; seek absolution for a cracked glass, not for the burns and bruises; pinches you blamed on another. I’m sorry your mother was too blind to see What her wretched daughter was doing to herself, When she sought love In other’s punishment; Invoked the Lord’s judgement Over a mouthful of milk. You’ll do well I’m sure, so talented and so young. But so was I. I can’t watch you grow anymore, oh how I wish I had thrown you across that room. And let my prayers ring true as I utter May the devil harl your soul through hell. |