My Poetry. The way of the Witch.

Darkness falls upon the village,
Where birds don't sing anymore,
Except the odd owl hooting,
And the shriek of the wild boar.

The last person lived till ninety-four,
The rest died before they were twenty,
Caused by a witch burned at the stake;
In revenge, she killed a plenty.

Who was this woman? Why was she killed?
Only a few had known;
They say she practiced witchcraft by night,
And her reputation had grown.

She lived alone with her cat,
He was as black as night itself;
Into the dark witching hours,
You could hear the devil himself.

Smoke burns from the chimney stack,
Releasing beautiful, colorful lights;
To the naked eye, one could see
Figures floating most nights.

Tall figures, short figures, animal-like,
Were born from the color of gold;
Hardly a soul lived to tell
How the story itself would unfold.

What were those figures? Why were they here?
Only the witch was carefully informed;
All that was known was that each new night,
Figures were hideous and malformed.

Disappearing speedily into the night,
No one knew where they would go,
Or the purpose of their timely birth—
No light could anyone throw.

All of a sudden, an angry crowd gathered
To catch the witch in the act;
Wilfully accused of black magic, they say,
It was a matter of fact.

At 10:35 on a chilly day,
The witch paid the price with her life;
The black cat let out an eerie squeak—
The atmosphere could be cut with a knife.

To this day, the smoke appears,
Even though the house is decayed;
If you look very closely into the smoke,
The figures still appear. BE AFRAID!