w i t c h e s

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

Charred Words

Standing in front of the house,
The one I had heard a hundred stories about
I saw you rise into the air 
Like the black smoke, you used puff once
I felt you turn into the ashes
Like the ones that burnt me on the bonfire on New Year's Eve
Only, this burn won't heal as easily.

As we drove away from the
Hamlet of your Childhood Tales
I noticed something missing,
With a looming feeling of emptiness 
Like the times we would leave for a vacation 

Only to realise that we had forgotten something to pack
Yet, this time the article can't be replaced.

The next day, 
I found your eyes in the mirror,
The silver glass showing me your young gaze,
Not wrinkled with your wisdom yet,
Like the ones we saw in black and white photographs of you
Except, these are too sad to be yours.

A few weeks later,
I heard you in my voice, 
The same tone resonating in my ears
Like the sound of your annoyance with a touch of humour 
Just, lacking the heaviness that yours carried with ease.

Today,
I read you in my poetry 
My pages covered in words of you
Like fresh 'mint leaves' as you described them often
But, these words, seem to be too charred to be you.