by Nick Gisburne
A renegade, the witch she wants to be,
She bathes in what her blasphemy began.
No other soul must ever sense or see
The secrets of the sacrilege, her plan.
With innocence abandoned by a child;
With unrelenting rage, a mother’s curse,
A dozen dark emotions, wicked, wild,
Are trapped, tormented, twisted, pulled, perverse.
The bitterness of men gives bile and bite.
For love and hate, and all their spawn, she bleeds.
Between the truth of day, the lies of night,
She pours a poison, tongues the taste, and feeds.
Forbidden dreams of death reveal a gate.
She opens it, infecting hope with hate.
