Witches Chant their Spells (a poem)

The witches chant their spells
And we wallow in our private hells
We listen to tolling church bells
We wonder what compels us
To circle around the cauldron
And obey sinister doctrines

Witchcraft is not always evil
But it is in my little village
Our laws are quite medieval
And we have revoked privileges
Of the saints in the town square

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Black Magic (a poem)

Where did you learn black magic?
You’ve put me under your spell
The look on your face is so tragic
My fortune, you did tell

Where did you learn black magic?
You give off witchy vibes
Your sexuality is volcanic
You have those bedroom eyes

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Salem (a poem)

I’ve spent centuries obsessed with evil

fingers bleeding from scrawling in notebooks,

searching for ways to banish it

to deep corners of space

away from us

where it takes souls,

twists them in black sorcery –

I wake up in Salem, trembling

witches burn, the smell of scalding flesh

the executioner removes his mask,

smiles – I fall into deep sleep

(Photo by Vladimir Agafonkin on Unsplash)

The Witch Queen (a poem)

The Witch Queen nurses you to health and assures you

she means no harm – the people fear her because she’s

ageless and has wandered these woods for centuries,

speaking with wild animals and traversing the dark

landscape, looking for lost travelers.

She tends to their wounds, offers medicine in her hut,

then devours them in sexual ecstasy like they’ve

never experienced before. They all leave feeling better –

the Witch Queen is your friend, not your enemy.

(Photo by Miriam Espacio on Unsplash)

Note: This poem was inspired by a character in Old Gods of Appalachia, a horror anthology podcast that I’m currently obsessed with.