Witch

iron pits your couldron's stare down ages, hags, before you sought, with snake, in dusty room, no see-through corners candlelit, those candle teeth, a shack, a mouth with rotting feather, tooth and hair on beam of dead ‘ns hanging droop, scythed blood in drops and gushes fruit a mixture that you stir who said that you were old and frayed, with jagged stark and crookedness you cried, had thighs and smiles that lit, those witches, dead, became you