The Witch’s Brew

A Poem

When nightmares prey on tortured souls, And sleepless nights release their hold, Strange prophecies will come to pass, The witch’s brew will fill her glass.

There is a secret road, do tell, of white haired maids that drain the well, and if the sacred hole runs dry, the middle man hoards his supply.

The seamstress slow and tailor swift mend the cloak fit for a king, they babble on, by chamber door, the king demands they speak no more.

Dreams of night kiss purple sky, The pillow cradles lullabies. A jester earns his thirty pence, The writer pockets fifty cents.

Connie Song 2020