Sisters of the Moon

The days grow long, and dusk drags on.

Legend and darkness cloud over,

Like film.

The Weaver will hem and haw,

And soon, it’ll be a hymn.

Tipped with caution,

Tucked into bed with the young.

The veil between the planes grows thin,

And they cross over,

Their tales, unsung.

The witches we burned,

The ones we chained,

When we let fear lead us astray.

The boughs of apples will lend themselves to rot.

You’ll watch the dark spots bloom,

Hoping they would keep,

Knowing they would not.

Rose-red, delicious death.

You’ll walk over graves,

Over bones and skulls,

And you’ll pick them up.

Hallowed is thy ground,

But before you sleep,

Take one last look around.

Pumpkins in a patch,

Picked off,

One by one.

They’ll whisper in your ears,

Telling you what you want to hear,

But rarely the truth,

Of what you’ve done.

Double double toil and trouble,

Something wicked this way comes.