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Is the witches brew through?
The stirring seems endless.
The turns ceaseless.
Heat so intense, sitting apon 
such hot, hot, ambers.

The pot is heavy and old,
its handle weak.
It seems to be hanging on a thread.
Over and over the stirring does not cool.
The bubbling is hindered instead.

I am not the stirrer really .
I am not the pot.
Nor am I the ambers hot.
Nor the brew I'm not.

Ah!  these are things that come from where?
Not from me is what I care.

Where do I belong?
Why stay in this fire?
I am free.

OH do I say I am useful here.
I lie!
For I am not vetable, beef, poultry or sea food.
Nor am I a spice.
Where do I fit in?
Well! in my own life. 

Its ok! you will make it.
Prepare your own brew.
I now know which is mine.

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