Turned to a Tree by the Witches

Turned to a Tree by the Witches

He crept by moonlight,

hands quick with greed.

Three hearts in a jar,

stolen from witches three.

He thought them weak,

old bent women, ash in their hair.

But their eyes burned red,

and their whispers split the air.

He ran through the forest,

hearing them behind.

The jar pressed tight,

against his chest of sin.

The ground turned cold,

the wind grew thick.

A root reached up,

to drag his heel.

The witches spoke as one,

their voices clawing his ears.

“Your breath is ours, thief,

your bones are bark.”

His scream sank deep,

as his body stiffened.

Flesh cracked to wood,

blood hardened to sap.

Hair fell like vines,

arms stiffened to limbs.

His mouth froze open,

in a hollow grin.

Now he waits forever,

roots chained in soil.

The wig of false hair,

mocking his stolen crime.

Children whisper near,

but never too close.

For the tree still hungers,

with a thief’s black ghost.

on nights when the jar glows red,

deep beneath the ground,

three hearts beat slowly,

and the witches laugh.