Witch

A wicked thought is a witch.

Her name a poison on the tongue,

A shroud of creped and boiled skin.

She speaks with sored, acrid breath,

And twitches bony fingers bent.

Her name a whisper on the wind,

A crooked nose beneath tepid eyes.

She speaks with song, a chorus spell,

And stirs her frothy, rosy brews.

Her name a curse for all to dread,

A darkened soul from wayward trees.

She warns with talon nails sharp,

And drags her silken tendril cloak.

Unless,

Her name is but a common call.

An unassuming, forgettable face.

She talks of modest, normal things.

And hides her true self beyond belief.

A wicked thought is a witch.