The Witches Killed Him
The witches killed him, not the flies
that descended from the bluest skies
They watched with hollow, empty eyes
as distant bells began to rise
The wind fell quiet on that hill
where hearts grow cold, and time stands still
No prayers were whispered, none were said
They left him broken, cold, and dead
Not fate, not chance, nor heaven’s cry
No distant angels drifting by
Just shadows deep, and cursed hands raised
to end his nights, erase his days
And though the sky stayed pure and wide
he lay forgotten where he died
No flies, no storms, no thunder near
Just silence thick with hate and fear
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❤️
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Comments (1)
This poem does show witches in an old light. I am a believer of white witches in a way. Good job and that image sets the tone.