brewing an exile of craziness,
leaning on a witching life.
I cry, missing innocence.
Burning at a stake, a stake
of truth and common sense.
Only cob webs stretch along
windows, eyes drenched
in rain drops. Aroma steams
from the boil, revealing
loneliness, abandonment,
hatred. A candle is blown
out as the craft is done,
just as the spell. Sprits
rise to the clouds, turning
white, longing to be as black
as thunder.
Deidre Grotbo
