Witch is Which

It started as an unpleasant itch, grew into a tiny twitch that she wished would go away, *sigh* but there aren’t any fairies left today.

The tremors shook, the fevors grew, no one knew what to do: fetid boils burst upon her; gangrene goo sapped her color draining life
milk to gaul;
power with purpose, she’ll have it all.

Think you’ve nothing left to give? She’ll find something… don’t worry,
you’ll live.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s