The Leech Mother

She's lived in places not fit for man,
If life is something she's ever had.
Taken, yes so she had possessed
A thousand or more but none she had kept.

Her eyes are blind but still she sees
Through the leech broods her rotting womb still breeds,
Becoming sight and a blood catching vial.
She stirs the cauldron, her recipes vile.

They slither and squirm,
Those toothed bloodthirsty worms,
And come back a sack of corpulence
Full of the necessary ingredients.

Maggots fall from her mouth with a whisper
Into the soup, a magical mixture.
Each containing a spell, their white bodies pop.
From her index and thumb a leech will be dropped.

Her words are like poison so she speaks very little
Corrosive, contagious; her blasphemous spittle
Sizzles her leather clothes, skin hand torn and clipped.
Smelling like the burning children whose skin she wears stitched.

Collecting the stuff to make her hell-broth;
Stirring the stew as the bones boil till soft.
The smell that plumes forth induces a dance in slow motion
As the coven of witches sip from the potion.