The Hex

The night before I left the moon had gone, it was as if raw forces of my past had now combined to rip and tear the mask off my pale face, and thus expose a ling'ring guilt. No hope was left, it seemed there would be no escape. Once in the forest, threatening sounds had quickly faded, as heavy drapes were now descending all around. And I was free again, the weight of clinging conscience had stayed behind, for generations to adopt. Now briefly resting at the edge of a black clearing, I wiped the dagger on my sleeve until it glistened, hail, stoic steel, you have not questioned my farewell, have plunged so willingly inside the hearts of twelve. Yes, like apostles in that purple-curtained church you stood in judgment, filled with hate and indignation, an inequisition, after centuries of reason you would agree that it was I who was in dire need. And yes, your charges, are the pure and utter truth, I am a witch who would have burned in times long past. I dress in cotton-stitched and tantalising robe, it is my nakedness beneath that has you scared. This fear to save my bone-white skin from pious fires, I do remember how I flashed my hairless pubis while cruel steel would end your life due to distraction, creating havoc for your death so deep inside. Now I move on with hurried steps through stubborn bushes, there is a rustle as if leaves talked to their twigs. A sudden roar and one last leap of deadly faith, it must be God, I think, while drifting into slumber of velvet purple like the curtains of the church.