Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sydney Nov 4
Purple, shiny with edges, nooks, and crannies
Light bounces off and dances along the walls
Mitch Prax Sep 24
The witch of the woods
makes a home in my heart and
conjures her magic

4:06 PM
Starry Aug 29
A Wiccan woman
At her witch ball
And off to space
As she contemplates life
fray narte Aug 3
we do not
burn down
with the fire —
we become it.
fray narte Aug 3
the world will go down the same way it tried to hurt her —
through fire
and she will dance
in the debris.
fray narte Jun 26
death by burning knows no era
and my demons have long
set me on fire.

i feel like a witch burning at the stake —
burning and screaming for too long now,
but give it time and maybe
even my nerves can learn to be numb,
even the lick of flames can grow cold;

and maybe even the ashes can feel like home.
Leila U Nov 2018
Tell me about the wicked witch of the west,

Tell me about her black pointy hat,

Her black screeching cat.

The night she flew thru the sky,

The night she touched the stars and danced for the moon,

Her dance a gift and a goodbye.

Tell me more about the wicked witch of the west,

Tell me about her auburn hair as it turned to dust,

Her angel voice, her last scream through the air it ******,

Tell me about her godly form in the flame, her last words whispered

A deep cut through our chest.

Tell me more about my sister,

Tell me about the Wicked Witch of the West.
Rose L Nov 2018
Rising heat
and the
various plastics, and metal. And cold
The cold that spreads and burns.
I can't see
but I know your form
and prise it from your hands,
The drip of the loosening end
and the fray
and the cut -
the cut that I make,
She mote it be that
indulgences rot in your palms if held for too long.
I think of berries all through winter
but fruits left in the mouth taste bitter
and the sugars burn.
Night passes, and heals me.
and the wheel turns.
Rose L Oct 2018
Blue skies, that fade to cream, that fade to a navy ache.
The sun and moon are poetry that only I awake -
What solitude.
Back home, I'm bleeding out
like rivulets to the sea
the sun and moon are a verse that only I can read
silent and soft, the touch of god
that bleeds down to the sea.
Next page