My generation is swarming
With new kinds of witches.
Some will be obvious,
Lurking and spitting, throwing
Daggers from the corners of every room.
But on occasion, one will be covert,
With sweet dresses and
Beautiful hair cascading down her shoulders.
Greeting those around her
With a charming smile and wide, bright eyes.
But she weaves a web of deciet and triffling words,
And as she speaks, she clouds your mind, speaking
In foreign tongues which are not
Of this true world, until you
Are caught unaware, for her spell has been cast.
You blink, confused, and look down at your hands,
Trying to ignore the impending sensation of insects
Creeping up your arms
Until you realize.
You realize that her spells are not those of darkness and horror,
They do not come in forms such as toads, dark clouds, or anguish.
Her power, her only power
Is that of one way time travel.
And when she casts her spell, her words take you back
To when you were simple, childish,
12 years of age.
Her words come out in flames,
Painful, cruel flames that scortch your heart,
You fight back, begging her to stop
And realize the pain she is inflicting,
Until you suddenly notice that the words are meaningless.
Words, painful words,
But from a child's mouth.
And you stare at her in horror when your past self
Flees your being while her's remains.
Her words, still shooting from her mouth, now
Small, plastic bullets from
A child's gun.
They sting your skin, but no longer scortch your heart.
She then flies away, charming smile back in place,
Leaving you swaying in utter shock, praying
That her next victim will posess your same
Awareness, and sense the truth behind the flames.