The Witches’ Curse
Roots gripped bone.
Flesh gave in.
The bark split open,
And swallowed his cry.
The water waited below,
But he could not fall.
The sky looked on,
But offered no hand.
His knees bent forever,
Locked in the climb.
The branches pierced,
Where breath once lived.
The face hollowed.
Eyes turned to knots.
Mouth sealed with sap.
No voice remains.
Children whisper,
When passing this shore.
That the tree still groans,
When night draws near.
He is bound.
Not dead.
Not alive.
Only waiting.
The witches laughed,
As the tide rose.
Their spell fed the bark,
Their spell drank his soul.
He cannot sleep.
He cannot break.
The witches turned him,
To a tree.
There is no escape.
The rule not to break is clear
never double cross a Witch.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
Keep reading
More stories from Marie381Uk and writers in Poets and other communities.
Comments (2)
Loved the imagery, Marie. So fitting for the poem. I am with Mark, we need to know what he did to turn into a tree. A new challenge for you. 😉😉
What a great thriller? What did he do to be turned into a tree? Could be another great story here, Miss Marie. Good job.