I cast a besom to my heart,
I bound my emotion to the things that entwined my fate.
My ancestors in my blood spoke in rhythms,
That I would never dare to entertain.
My anxiety cast me into a chokehold.
Bound to the stake my thoughts would churn,
The power within me would bubble,
But my lips would turn cold by the time I would ever let my voice burn.
For centuries woman like me were taught to fear the dark,
But if that is the thing that gives a woman like me her powers.
Then it is the first and last spell I will ever cast.
I speak in rhymes I do not remember,
Drawn to herbs and rituals I never had to learn.
To the time my pen touched the paper the woman of the dead spoke through to me
‘You were born powerful,
Stop waiting for men to give you your turn’
I breathed in heavily,
Used my besom to clear the space,
The dark chronicles of war will call me a demon.
But if praying to the moon and to the cycles of nature was a sin.
I guess they had better burn me at my wake.
Because after all a witch is one who dies but keeps on living,
That sacred space that pours magic,
When the human half begins to break.
To where the darkness holds my hand,
And guides me to the light,
The two entities that teach me how to be liminal,
Yet teaches my spirit how to reincarnate.
Jan 12
Jan 12, 2026 at 4:51 PM UTC