Tawney skin glistens with sweat
Beads in her hair, make noise in the wind
No soul has spoken in the bayou for years
So alone, she waits
Almost in fear
Rather than a potion, her current concoction
Is stronger than the witches brew
The Creole holy trinity swirls within the stew
She's a reserved young woman in the market by day
But the sweet decay of the moon at night leaves her restless
Flip a coin, summon a cat who catches the mouse, it's dark but just a game
The folk in the bayou begin to whisper again
Witch, they say
With unbridled rage
Cocking guns and laying waste
But silent in her man made hut
She stirs her Gumbo and hums along
YOU ARE READING
WAX & SATIN
Poetry-"The Southern Gospel of the Southern Gothic. It always turns out to be a small town where everyone knows your name. The depraved are washed in blood, pleasure is found in dark places. Thankfully, there's still church on Sunday morning." A.E.Edward'...
