When A Witch Becomes A Pale Bride

Muster scarce trails to pursue the final tales
I might appeal once quizzed, tested & feeled
Oh, these cuts-cut-open and observed
Though barely alive-cautiously preserved.

Molested are my cries
Dispersed like transparent rime
Yet strangely I see trees
Which assail with stabbing scenes.

Thus maladies & their remedies mix
So violently they create loathsome tricks
Labyrinth of angles-so twisted
Shape & form the inevitable.

Through the hexen's mind
Through the sharpness of her nails
Into her grim thoughts he now sails.

Lame and sterile pain
Becomes now the most desirable pain
Washed to a pond of tears
Emptied to a valley of the gifted fears
Goblets of wisdom dried
When a witch becomes a pale bride
To the raving beauty of a doubt
A garland-old & worn-out.

"Here lies he who never lyed
Whose skill so often hath been tryed
Their prophecies shall still survive
And ever keep their name alive".