Witch
A wicked thought is a witch.
Her name a poison on the tongue,
A shroud of creped and boiled skin.
She speaks with sored, acrid breath,
And twitches bony fingers bent.
Her name a whisper on the wind,
A crooked nose beneath tepid eyes.
She speaks with song, a chorus spell,
And stirs her frothy, rosy brews.
Her name a curse for all to dread,
A darkened soul from wayward trees.
She warns with talon nails sharp,
And drags her silken tendril cloak.
Unless,
Her name is but a common call.
An unassuming, forgettable face.
She talks of modest, normal things.
And hides her true self beyond belief.
A wicked thought is a witch.
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