the soil, freshly turned
lays decorated with flowers
she smiles, admiring her work,
on which she'd toiled for hours
lace adorned gloves, stained with dirt
lay on a table with matches unlit
she smiles, striking and dropping one
the fire burns as bright as her wit
the bed for two, still unmade
lays only one, face flecked with gore
she smiles, peaceful at last,
so-called lover gone forevermore
YOU ARE READING
The Witching Hour
Poetrypoetry about the wicked and the witchy || featured by WP Poetry on Oddities Unknown || #183 in poem (11/3/18)
