her count was fifteen,
each night it seemed to grow
stillettos gleam in her hands
she reaps what they sow
four letters
one word
two vowels
one unheard
she weighs them,
whispering under bated breath
mediation meditation
from her lips, they only mean death
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)
