Her home is between
a dream and consciousness;
old specter of dark quartz.
Cradling her spells in skin-bound volumes,
old weaver of animosity,
the priestess of remorse.

In the amber fens, she's painting ripples
with turquoise glow.
Dancing with her puppets in a hellish glade
with skeletal hands
reaching from the mud and snow.

Sat beside the creaking wheel,
she draws phantoms on her loom.
Stirring murky potions
and studying the architects of doom.

Oft gazes her eyes of jeweled fire
upon the black smoke of a spectral pyre.
Watch her scribbling our forsaken fates.