1.
The moon,
Her lustre gleams sad yet enchanting.
Encased in her white gown, it seemed.
Like the oldest, purest porcelin.
Upon three witches she gazes.
Hags, ancient yet miserable.
Rags, grey and filthy drape their person.
Like midnight crones of a baneful carriage.
They woefully make their way to where the rites doth unfold.
2.
Tis a barren place,
where they hault.
No tree did grow,
No sun did shine -
Nor did the sweet bird song be heard.
Save for the isolation of the wind.
Whistling its mournful sonet.
Asunder a great stone they step,
Woods of old stacked in the centre.
3.
One of these putrid beings held a staff -
She who set light to the oaks.
The fire began hissing and engulfing the scene.
The hag with the bent back,
Embraced with misery and pain -
She who begun the chanting.
The other, with the crooked leg soon followed.
Like wailing banshee\'s they dansed.
Oh what a sight for pure eyes!
To watch these grusome creatures at their work.
The heat of the raging fire only seeming to entice them unto raptures of pent up anger and evil.
Their crys,
Their hellish screams.
Ravens of the darkness they were.
In pure agony they seemed,
Yet fuelled by some deep, entrapping venom.
Smoke glided in the acrid air,
Creating vile shapes and voices.
Gracing the atmosphere,
Like a grotesque tapestry.
But these voices,
The witches do not screech.
4.
Tension filled the wind -
It seemed to seep a cacophony.
The smoke turned to that of red -
Dark red -
Like that of the deepest danger.
The witches hault all of a sudden -
Caught in a web of evil they can not escape.
They ceased their apalling echos and stared in mute horror at the form in the burning furnace,
They created.
Roaring in the fire,
A demon stood,
Dominent and without remorse.
A voice bellowed that felt earth shattering.
Without tone,
This apparition that befell the witches,
Told them they had wronged him and he will take revenge.
5.
The demon metamorphozed.
To the smoke it went.
The voice beseeching peril for the three hags and a lesson to be had.
With no choice to escape their doomed fate.
***
The smoke parted,
Drawn into their bodies decrepit bodies.
A trio inflicted with a taint.
The wailing again...
So loud were their pathetic pleas,
It seemed the wind carried them.
The stone under which they spawned their destiny,
Would be broken.
Oh the power they emitted.
Their power short lived.
They fled their ritual place.
For asylum they doth seek.
***
The fire - mere ashes,
Grey and scattered.
The great stone,
Silently shaking.
The wind,
Free of the foul presence.
6.
Outcasts from a world of purity,
The three witches bear the eternal mark,
Within their haggered selfs,
The evil lies deep in everyone.
