my cloak hid me from dangers, my crossbow and dagger in hand
then a witch approached me, her face curled with age, her hands morphed
into blobs, five sausages hung from it like pudgy fingers
she caressed my beak, ruffled my feathers, sung a song like a thousand singers
were bleating their choruses into my head, her notes eventually dwarfed
my thoughts, left me warm and cold at the same time, but this i can stand
(soon i realize i cannot, actually)
YOU ARE READING
this fantastical world is too surreal (poetry #5)
Poetry"a rustle crackles underneath jackboots crossbow tight in hand she breathes one final breath before he pulls the trigger" you know the drill
