Down in the bayou where the mangroves grow
There's talk of black voodoo, like Marie Leveau
The Swamp Witch, is legend, she has magic so black
That those who have seen her, have never come back
There;s tales of the noises that come from the dark
Of werewolves and zombies as rough as the bark
The mangroves are sentinels, to where the magic resides
Where even a longboat has no room to glide
Bodies go missing from the graveyards most nights
And there's always a fog shading the fireflies lights
The Swamp Witch is ruler and Queen of this world
Where souls are all taken and spines can be curled
They say that she came here from Canadian lands
She was a metis they say, from the Western Tar Sands
A mystic by nature, a dark witch by blood
She lives deep in the swamp, protected by gators and mud
The gators respect her, they do as she bids
They keep watch on the waters, they're her reptillian kids
She keeps zombies as gendarmes, collecting bodies to turn
Just how black is her magic, no one can discern
The Swamp Witch is legend, she is as old as all time
The air in the bayou is as thick as the slime
The cajuns say voodoo is the core of her heart
They avoid fishing where the mangrove trees start
The Swamp Witch, a legend ? or is she truly the Queen
She's the Louisiana Witch, no one survives once she's seen.....

Is just what it sounds,
First you're up,
Then you're down

Can't decide
Of what to write
Of hearing? Of taste?
Of smelling? Of sight?

And you run in circles
But nowhere you get
Because writer's block
Has you in its net.

Cemented shoes
And silenced talk
It's even hard to describe
Writer's block

I find it so interesting
to think about hands.

to think that the same hands that guide, nurture
a loved one
could be used to beat, break,
abuse
another weak, fragile
human.

to think that the same hands that cooked pancakes
for his mother on her birthday
could be used to build a bomb to
******
the recipient of someone else's
breakfast.

to think that the same hands the hold yours so tight,
a lifeline to this drowning me
are used just hours later to tear, cut, burn,
destroy
the skin and bones you say you
adore.

to think that the same hands we use
for love and compassion
are so easily misused for
evil
and that no matter what our hands have touched, they will always look the
same.

The knife was too short; it just missed my heart.
Well, that was a reality check.....