The Blood of Stars

Witch of the wood, of the gnarled and verdant tree.
Dark eyes and pale skin, walking naked with the wild.
Mother of the moth and the flame, beneath the moon.
Wildness is cruel in it’s delights, tender in it’s madness.
She is in the eye of the moon as she runs with her children.
She is the blood of the stars as darkness reveals it’s skin.
Water sacred and blood holy, the world of the proud prey.
Words not spoken, not given, something beneath thought.
No use for invocations when it’s praised in every ragged breath.
The night is for a more ancient angel, a more bitter fey,
and she conjours them all with her howl and laughter.
The dawn is the ending of magic, the soul filled hunt put away.
The witch of the wood sleeps in cool dark den, smiles wicked.
The death of the light is the birth of all magic and fufilled dreams.
Calling all the unwanted home into the dark of the wood.
Calling all the left behind, to the kingdom that was always theirs.


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