During a witchcraft ritual
the human brain surreptitiously enters
the surreal states of elevated focus,
lofty emotion, and altered awareness,
as the spell acts as a powerful metaphor
for an internal intention or flustering fear.
People may feel like birds with frozen wings
under the misty sky, swept by the polar winds.
In the congealed hearts lapped by the Arctic sea
petrified emotions congeal, unexpressed.
Warm embrace of empathy they can’t proffer,
for they turn into cold unfeeling people.
People may feel as if their lives have changed
into desolate deserts where the oasis desiccates
in the blaze of their burning minds,
the fallen foliage of ardent passions glows,
doesn’t rustle with the fossil cadence of their hearts,
for they turn into wooden inert people.
Once the ritual concludes,
the cognitive system undergoes a sudden shift
with the intense concentration,
leading to a feeling of poignant emptiness,
excruciating exhaustion, or sudden susceptibility,
epitomizing the impulsive comedown
after a concerted emotional event.
They’ll always be another Eye of Newt around.
Or an ancient bone to be found.
But after the cauldron simmers down.
Better to not to find the unfound.
I should let the spiders take a rest.
As spiders always know what’s best.
Let the evening turn to shadows delight.
Trust in the process of fright.
After the last spell is cast.
At 3:00 am which comes so fast.
We can always break a mirror another day.
But for now, let’s just play.
With evening dew that looks like blood in the shadows of night.
The last spell cast helps us sleep tight.
They called us witches to keep us silent,
our words curling in smoke. They held
our heads under water, tied feet to a stake;
judged those without children or mark upon
skin. They accused us of misleading children,
that poor crops were due to our sin. Crone and
whore, bossy and loud; battle-axe and tart,
frigid and shrew. They called us witches to cover
our screams, they called us witches to hide
our power. They called us witches to spread myth,
they called us witches to dispel our magic. Strong
and independent, courageous and true; brave and
united, nurturer and proud. They call us witches?
A name begets importance. We call them, nothing.
Dreams
sweet flow
hue’d treasure
cocoon one’s sleep
spells
dreams
fond wish
rapt vision
spot on target
spells
spells
bewitch
and taunt
flagging psyches
charms
hues
bright daubs
on pallette
Tincture limp eyes
shades
Drip drop pitter patter,
Not even a storm can hide the sound of blood splatter,
Down her leg the drops glide,
Like the moon chasing after the evening tide,
Flooding freely without a care,
Out it sneaks from the dragon's lair.
Precious stream with a story to tell,
Promising heaven, delivering hell,
Bathe in moonlight,
Dance in the woods,
Smear this red on your riding hood.
Bloody countess, Sanguine sensation,
Blessed crimson revive my vocation,
I invoke your messiness to hearken my rebirth,
I am now the drop that falls to the earth.
Longing flickers like a spell
loose in the dark...
a small, bright predator
pursuing the shape of you.
You appear where reality thins,
a shimmer of mist,
a spirit wearing light.
Desire opens its hidden door
and the door becomes sky.
I reach,
and my reach turns luminous,
a quiet magic
that conjures your presence
from memory,
from myth,
from the soft ache
that knows your potency.
Here,
in the enchantment between worlds,
you rise...
a mirage,
a star,
a dream
I can almost touch.
Even to myself I avoid to show
My begging for all kinds of troubles to go
Far away, so far where they’d never be seen
Then I’d feel relieved, on your sill I’d lean
Looking at your garden and the green field
On a clear day when the Coombe Hill
Becomes visible, maybe we’ll have a stroll
And as usual, a drizzling rain would fall
On our way back, we return soaking wet
And the sun peeks out just before it sets
Switch the telly on, what’s the news they tell
Nothing good for today, and tomorrow as well
So we’re off to the garden, to smell the flowers
Under the spell of the magic hours..
We cast a spell, to cage our light,
for descent and ascent,
that rising thus we feel delight,
fulfilling heart’s intent.
With mind rested, thoughts cease,
whence we flow on with ease,
in mode embrace-release.
Stories we tell ~
We cast a spell
Just like a myosotis
"Do not forget me", I yell
You're the only one I miss
On thoughts of you, I still dwell
I'm under your spell
Falling into the abyss
Of you, I still reminisce
This farewell
Feels like a poisonous kiss
"Do not forget me", I compel
Empowered am I
Change of ideals
Knots to untie
The positive reveals
So much to do
No time to waste
Create an opus too
No cut and paste
I read and digest
Then spell out
A hypotesis to test
The title to shout
Will they read?
The ideas, new
A hybrid seed
For only a few
Let's start at home
Follow me, please
The rest can roam
Late, sagacity, seize
I desperately need an ink transfusion
AP: 2nd place 2026
They say I am full of air,
as I sit here wearing blue.
In the seventh house,
I love to see and smell roses.
Social circles is where I am,
as I am balancing life.
This is not my zodiac sign,
I know I am not under this spell.
An Incantation for the Well
I drop fifty pence from my heart
Into the well, wishing and hoping
For my heart's desire.
May you hear my call
Sire Marcus Baracus
And grant me my request.
From deep within my hopeful heart,
A silver coin is cast apart.
Into the wishing well it falls,
To answer what my spirit calls.
Hear my plea this sacred night,
And bring my true desire to light.
Find a physical token: Use a clean 50p coin.
Charge the coin: Hold it tight while visualizing your wish.
Hide the coin: Place it inside a small velvet pouch or a wooden box.
Choose the location: Keep it at the back of a drawer or under your mattress.
Leave it alone: Do not touch or spend the coin while waiting for results.
A spell of Protection from souls from Hell.
From my blazing cauldron,
I draw the sacred iron of absolute warding,
Glass shard, and salt.
To bind the shattered fate of my enemy.
He throws his full fury against my gates,
Yet his desperate siege crumbles into ash.
Plunging blindly through the very thresholds of ruin,
He falls into the dark abyss he opened
To pay his final, bleeding debt.
Gather glass, metal and salt and lay in corner of door.
Make the spell and imagine a gift for Sire Marcus Barracus.
To make a wish come true
Light a candle
Imagine walking up to the fort in the picture
Then make the wish.
Then your gift present for Marcus the Demon.
Showing your gratitude.
Ps. If you haven't got a candle , just touch picture
This is where Demons ascend from there realm.
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