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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Horror/Scary · #2259698
The witching hour approaches
She knows not why the wilderness calls
with groaning limb and rustled husk,
voices murmur on wafting gusts
luring feet through trees at dusk.

No beastly growls or distant howls,
strike her heart with fearful doubt.
Even the grasping branches fail
to slow the girl upon her route.

Pajamas, her silken armor,
sight keener than a blade.
Boldly, she treads into the dark
and treacherous forest glade.

Something within her whispers -
leaves tumble in spiral whirs
air grows thick with strange magic
arcane blood bubbles and stirs.

She clutches a squirming bundle,
sibling of flesh and bone.
Swiftly the girl lifts crying babe,
dashing brains against a stone.

You've done so well, dear child...
turning innocents into paste.
Spread it over your nubile form
and leave no scrap to waste.

Feel the power inside your veins,
savor each new spasm and twitch.
Inherit my ancient curse, at last:
birthing a great and terrible witch.
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