Witch of Sligo

WITCH OF SLIGO What wretched, vile, decay comes on from out of dreams before the dawn, in nights of Sligo, where I grew to be the man she thought was gone. She prayed me death, I always knew, her witches breath and witches brew, though seeming just an Irish lass, who seemed as I, the likes of you. But never think a night will pass when she's not there in midnight mass, her cauldron steaming, seething, blight, designed to tarnish gold or brass. She begged I drink, to make love right, revealing all she was that night, beneath her gown, her only dress, was more than eyes could ever fight. Her skin, so soft, to curse or bless, her opening, to happiness, as all the man I'd grown to be, she pulled into her nakedness. As her familiar welcomed me into her dark, where I could see the light of heaven through my vein, she told me death was meant to be. © VEE BDOSA the Doylestown Poet