every neighbourhood houses witches
the last brick house down the lane
wild women with unruly hair
looking out of their windowpane
sharp dagger-like tongues
cutting curses deep in your skin
stay away, you warn little children
and whisper to your next of kin
tornadoes decorate the corners of their house
swirling dark clouds of anger and cries
they'll fight you on rent
the air chilly in their vents
cracks in the elevator shaft
leaking wisps of strength, adding on weights you could never hope to lift
raging thunderclaps sound
when you smoothly ask for the ring to be passed
to the man of the house
in whose blood you think these women are doused
they don't attend your fairs
or your warm bonfires
maybe because they're afraid you'll burn them on the pyre
finally a neighbourhood
where no witches are alive
though i hear their voices
in my own exasperated sighs
i look in the mirror
to find, the witch that was cursed
now resides inside
the brick melted into smooth blinding silver
like a lake of my 'sins'
stay away, you warn little children
and whisper to your next of kin
