Shapeless frames writhe in wrath through darkened paths
Overgrown, neglected, haunt of banshee.
The moon unshrouds from behind the clouds,
They enter the clearing of Coven Tree.
Raising spells and casting signs they recall abuses past;
Each and all feed on spine bracing stories.
"Uphold the Truth, friends, don't false witness lend.
Justice! Sink or float it's to our glories."
In bloody rain this tree has borne the pain
Of Innocents ordained to bear guilt's stain:
Dispossessed, Besmirched and Persecuted;
Scapegoats burdened with all their world's disdain.
Dried devastated crops and drought starved flocks:
"'Tis the fault of damned witchy craft tenants."
Defaulted rents, without homesteads, cast out:
"Punish them for their ambitious tenets."
They shuffle and shunk round the thickened trunk,
Bark smoothed by each new coeval of witch.
Though every plea fades into lunacy
They can't cease cursing the crush of the rich.
They come and grope futile magical hope
That the world will grant succor to the lost;
But must stay wary, no sanctuary.
Steal away, lest seen and suffer the cost.
