The witch whirled around her golden cauldron,
Her shoes clacking on the stone floor as she
Chants in a language that's now forgotten;
Perhaps chanting to awake the ancients.
Her voice resonates in tune with the smoke,
As it rises in ever growing wisps
Like the clouds that shift to veil the moon’s face.
“Fumus! specula!” she cries as she stirs,
She’d lift the wooden spoon from the bubbling
Cauldron only to find that it’s melted.
Still, she'd flick through her potions book, searching
As her eyes would flash verdant as glow-worms.
Against the starry night sky—Constellations
In their own right against the cave’s night sky.
She’d cast madly in a fervor as bolts
Of lightning illuminate the night sky.
Knowing what’s good for them, the ravens scatter,
Their shadowy bodies blocking the moon.
Still, the witch would brew, throwing anything,
And everything into that dreaded void.
Outside, the cicadas would hum madly,
While the moon would drip silver in the brew.
Madness is found behind her vibrant eyes,
As she stoppers the potions into vials.
Lining her shelves with the odd colored vials,
She waits, hoping for someone to visit;
Waiting for someone to knock at her door.
And yet, after all this, no one will come,
So the witch sits drinking her tea, alone,
Watching as the ravens fly though the night
Preparing to brew another potion
That will never be shared.
