Sta.sh
Thouest times of old,
Brings a breeze of decay,
Unto the hearts of many,
Calling to the sea,
The echos of cries,
Wail across the forsaken graveyard,
Musically framing the ritual,
Of wytches,
Who sing their rites,
To the moon above,
Its illuminating glow encircling them,
As they dance against the wind,
Twirling round,
Round again,
Stopping to look unto the eyes,
Of the spiritual heavens above,
Taking a piece of their soul,
Unto thy hand,
Merging it unto the earth,
Sealing them together into one,
Their hearts beating in rhythm,
Twice as fast with thy mother,
As the circle spins faster and faster,
Alas the wytching hour arrives,
Sending magick from the hollows,
Of the souls who arise,
From the woven ground,
Shaking the dirt from their,
Rotting skin,
Hovering above the earth,
Spinning counter clockwise,
Around the wytches they go,
Whispering forgotten words,
Of a foreign tongue,
Which dangle in the air,
Climbing unto the wytches ear,
As they praise the dead,
For the harvest will come again,
When the seasons flow unto solitude,
And the leaves change from green to orange,
Pumpkins sprout from the silent earth,
Creating an atmosphere of darkness,
As they smile into the night,
Laughing mischievously,
Thy wytches cease to feel alive,
For the idol of glowing light is setting,
Unto the horizon,
Winter's eyes have open,
As the sun peeks from beneath,
The blanket of black,
First snow drenches,
The souls below,
Sending them back,
From wince they came,
Unto the shadows of death,
Alas the wytches prepare for sacrifice,
To please the gods of ice,
Slowly they prepare for black mass,
As a table of stone shifts the circle,
Now moving counter clockwise,
Against the ages of time,
Choosing a radiant victim,
A maiden pure of heart,
With hair of gold,
Eyes of water,
Whose tears fall upon the soft woven earth,
As she lay in a prison of torment,
The dagger drawing closer,
And closer,
To her white velvet skin,
Gently brushing it,
Ripping it from the seams,
Blood begins to pour,
Unto the chalice below,
As slowly she fades unto nothing,
Alas the priestess removes her shroud,
Her glare piercing,
The girl's lifeless corpse,
As her hand reaches for the chalice,
Turning it upward above her mouth,
Drinking the exquisite crimson liquid,
And chanting begins,
Closing the circle shut,
Releasing their magick,
To the gods above,
Blessed they are with rain.
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To fix: From wince they came (from whence)