swirl your pencil like a broom
and write your magic spells
isolation became my friend, as i wove spells with graphite. all my life i was told, witches burn by firelight.
don’t listen to what they say
gathering together a witches hunt
hiding in silence stuffy and stiff, i heard the crowds pass by. i could tell them i wasn’t a witch but that would be a lie.
stir the pot carefully
don’t let it boil over
the first spell i ever brewed, was a casted charm of invisibility. but i’ve gone too long without writing, so now they’re gonna catch me.
i was branded with a witch’s mark
for casting a spell on him
i never wrote a spell for him, he fell all on his own. but for all the witch hunters, i was destined to me alone.
one less witch
one more light in the world
stories never told how i gave in willingly, realizing the differences i had wanted to make, could be made by just being me.
they gave my ashes to the king
and claimed that the witch had burned
but the stake was empty that day
because as a witch i burned up from the inside out
(unwritten spells are magic of their own)
until the fire was afriad of me