by Nick Gisburne
The threads of life are severed, stitch by stitch
To bleed the soul, to pull apart the dream
I cut, to free the spirit of the witch
And, from the deepest pit of pain, a scream
I bring the cold corruption of a touch
The scrape of ice, a sliver on the spine
Each slit, each stripe, too many, and too much
A sacrilege to make her magic mine
I burn the bitter tallow of her soul
It shimmers as the essence slowly seeps
Until, at last, in shining shades of coal
I see her spirit, kneeling, and it weeps
My fingers crush the creature to its death
Its powers pulled within me, with a breath
