Let me clothe myself in shadows,
before I become a mockingbird for you
My wings are not yours too eat, scab and wound.
There are owls and ravens in my eyes,
Lakes of feathers, bristling in my bones.
You cannot tame wildness with a cage.
We peck at the roots and find liberation, for our bones are carved from the dirt.
I am death kisses and soft whispers;
Saturn scents coil around my spine like serpents.
You think that what you see is what you get
but the depths of my soul are inked from the blood of the old gods.
I am not your sin-eater,
I am the madness hidden in a small curl of hair.
We are edge-walkers,
black dogs and jackals,
We are Witches –
Brighter than the sun and
colder than the moon.
Poem Copyright 2015 of Nightshade author of The Purple Broom