The day is young,
the night is wild,
as the world around you spins the same,
as the grass is green,
as the sky is pale.
The nights are cold,
dusk is grim,
as your body slows to it's standard pace.
As the stars quit shining.
Witching hour lights it's magick,
the candles flicker a smokey yellow,
casting done by words of the same rhythm,
expectations complete,
young is gray and tired.
Circles and salt and water and dishes,
the protection has you nursed,
as old but lifting evil fence around you.
While it is still in the eye.
Voices crack, boom and shake,
collapse.
As you lift your face to the north,
your leg arises slow with a pop,
although frightened,
your still standing.
And with correct passing,
you still stand.
