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.