Deep in the forest, where the witches get naked.
Floating in a circle around the fire that called them.
Crackling sounds pop like fireworks
in between their ears. Offing their minds that go
when souls get sold in the night.
What a sight for the trees,
standing like gods looking down on sin. Watching praise that’s twisted –
like toxic lovers lusting again.
words from another realm.
With a passion that could pass for anger, the more they release,
the higher they ascend.
Atop the shining crystal, draped over by the clouds, they move their body parts so elegantly –
like ballerinas in
Skin peeling off as they are pulled, until they are nothing but brittle bones in the sky.
With wings that only butterflies can possess, fluttering out of their spines.
It’s a beautiful disaster.
A crown of dead things,
that live again.