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The Witch's Cat

Save for you poor dearest
'tis true I dwelt alone  
courting only vain distraction  
as you followed through these woods  
to gather what we might    
and raise our simple soup  
  
But yet I recognized no truth  
when my accusers claimed    
of late I'd grown
the fur and claw of witch  
a slur to rival
such sage darkness of your own  
and taint my heart with shadow  
so even your fine whiskers preened    
to keenly know the truth  
  
Sad curdled cream
to conjure poison
from spiteful jealous tongues  
and fuel the bile of rancid idle tales    
What raggle-tag of crones    
would spit to singe our souls  
and bind us both to Lucifer  
then feed the pyre our bones?  
  
Yet even fools must dance their jig  
come midnight's moment stumble    
to feast deceit from crumbs  
when stake and blindfold scream  
to curse them in hell's flame  
cavorting with bald nonsense  
false sin to seal their shame  
  
Then so my dearest    
fate's path ahead cries clear  
No cowardly repentance    
shall compromise truth's will  
forsaking lap and hearth  
our ghosts defy each year  
for in death
through woods eternal    
we'll hunt together
still
Written by Abracadabra
Published
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