She dances in a ring of fire.
Cackling laughter stirring in the hot muggy nights.
Sweat dripping down her shining skin.
Her eyes are affixed on the blackened feline stalking her from the woods.
It's the night to feast upon the eve's magic, for one for all it's harvest moon.
They dance upon the corpses wallowing in the despair of their timeless
It's time for souls to dance deep in the shadows of the trees.
The raven calls it's madness echoing it's sadened glory.
Isis, Isis queen of the dark, she whispers magic into all the creatures of the
The horned frog hops along in a frenzied pace. The owl sits distilled and misty
eyed perched on it's branch.
Heartbeats pulsate throughout the land.
Time does not exist in this hour of enchantment and dreams.
The witches do their forbidden dance, while shamans sink into peyote trance.
Their bodies so naked, pale, and bare.
They stomp the sound of their sorrows.
The moon peaks into the night giving the evening, bright soft light.
They dance into the wild water, drenched and shimmering.
The fire burns out, moonlight guides them through the nameless tides.
Sunken treasure, seducing pearls.
The witches generate all the power in the land.
A blessing is born tonight, a small gem so radiantly damasked to the world.
The child is born to strange becomings, and odd rituals.
It's eyes are dark like that of an onyx sky..
This child will carry on the workings and absorb the magic.
Born to the trees, born to the desert, born to the rainforest so lavenously green,
born to the tundra where snow is forever seen.
She is born to the north, east, south, and west.
Earth, air, fire, water all the elements making up her strange bondage
She travels the world forever and free. She is the mysterious gypsy just aching
She is nor monster, nor sermon, nor beast, she is not a fairy princess at a
banquet or feast.
She is nor killer, nor savior to say the least.
She is witch, she is woman, she is wise, all do respect to the mens demise.
Copyright © Amber Ouellet | Year Posted 2008
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