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The Witch's Breath and Brew
She brought the lunar spell, at midnight's glow,
upon herself to rid the love she felt;
in all her grief, she wanted him to know
she didn't care, although he'd seen her melt;

he'd taken his desire, all he could want
unmeasured love that flowed as free as sin
all fresh and cool as any mountain font
until her soul was drained and stretched too thin;

unshackled from her past and in a daze,
she yielded to his hand that searched her out,
well knowing of his vile and vagrant ways,
but hungering for what he was about;

     unmercifully his enigmatic style
      brought to her mind the reasons life can smile;

how she did love his probing fingertips,
to places never known by anyone,
the violence in his sealing of her lips
that stopped the heart her life depended on;

but what she gave was more than he could bear,
and his own heart gave in to death's embrace
just as the coming of his soul was there
he died, and with a smile upon his face.

Right then she knew, he'd always plague her mind
unless the gods would rid his memory;
and though she'd search, she knew she'd never find
another man that made her love as he.

       And so the lunar madness her soul breathed
        was brought on by the spell of love bequeathed.

© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet

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