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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2198881
Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Gothic · #2198881
A poem about one person's attempt to exist in a world of bullying and intimidation.
An Incantation


The decision to do it

was sudden,

no premeditation

for this incantation.

Things that she needed

were easy to find,

apart from the sword.

Would a knife-blade suffice?

It was silverly sharp

after all.

Ivy aplenty;

some bunches

she gathered,

along with

one

single

red

rose.

Bone was a chore,

but there were bound to be some,

so she dug in the earth

and finally a score.

It was old,

it was aged,

frail as the bird it had once belonged to.

Even so,

without a doubt

it was bone.

She stole out in to the night,

her clothes black,

hood pulled low;

she'd recite those words,

now memorized,

beneath the moon's

soft glow.

She placed the ivy to the back,

making a half circle,

joining it together

with bone

and with rose.

What should she do with

the blade?

So few instructions,

so with a wing and a prayer

she'd follow her instincts;

they'd brought her there.

Kneeling,

she kept the blade clasped

in her hands,

and then she began to

intone:


"Maiden, Warrior, Mother and Crone,

Flower, Sword, Ivy and Bone,

Help me make myself my own,

Maiden, Warrior, Mother and Crone".


Had she expected a reaction?

Some kind of sign?

Nothing changed;

all was as it had been before.

Had the Morrigan turned,

closed firmly

her door?

Surely, such as she

would give an answer,

some kind of clue

that she had heard the call and would not

turn away

and leave it unheeded.

Was it the lack of blood?

There had been no mention

but maybe,

just a tiny

nick...

a drip!

The moon passed behind a cloud.

She shivered,

tossed the ivy,

the bone,

but kept the rose,

blood-red;

the knife would have to be

returned.

Morning and she began to doubt;

had it been

a dream?

Had she really gone

and spelled it out?

Head down

she made her way to school,

to the bullies

that waited,

for the taunting

she always

anticipated.

Was it chance when

at her feet

a feather fell,

long,

black?

And in the sky,

they wheeled,

they cawed,

one landing either side of her.

She lifted her head,

stood straight

and tall;

she'd gone

and she had made

that call.

She had not the slightest doubt...

the Morrigan

had her

back!



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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2198881