Sonnet 38
Kiss me, but do not ride upon my back,
Taking my breath wherefore I cannot speak.
Sleeping silent the stars surreal select,
Witches riding my back where I woe weak.
Those nights should have been bliss by where I slept,
On cotton pillows comforting my rest.
Yet there a tear did tear my eyes that wept,
While witches, brooms as blankets, laid to nest.
My spine, seduced by sorcery it seems,
Grew paralyzed as those roots of a tree.
While witches wet their wishes in my dreams,
I ask why hast thou dreams forsaken me?
To thee that knows thine troubles that I take,
Watch me and let not witches end my wake.
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