Mother Mag

There once lived a woman  
In an opulent estate    
No amount of wealth  
Could spare her this fate        
 
Her name was Mag  
She bore a beautiful daughter        
Nothing could prepare them  
For this unsightly slaughter                  
                 
They spent their young lives  
Creating potions and powders  
The alchemical machines could  
 Not have been any louder  
 
Healers by trade and  
Mystics by night  
I can still see the way their brooms  
Rose with the night  
 
For they were both witches, and with such practices forbidden                  
Nothing but burning could see her forgiven                  
The daughter, blameless,  
Mag’s spawn nonetheless        
I can still see the way  
The flames danced up her dress                  
     
Then, after church, the priest  
Returned to the pyre    
Both were not found, but they were consumed by fire!                  
No skeleton, no sinew,  
No tooth could be found  
Perhaps it is best if we consecrate this ground                  
   
Thus the necessary prayers ensued                  
Until the priest… his lips… Why, they’re so blue!
The doctor is summoned while he struggles to breathe              
An eerie voice slowly tells them to leave                  

They will not listen, for the devil consumes        
Damn those feckless, repugnant witches and brooms!            
Prayer is useless, she is abound                  
They cut her down, and it’s come back around                  
   
She slices, she slashes, she takes what she likes      
Her tormented daughter helps in the fight            
 Young she may be, but blood will be hers            
  She playfully asks, “Won’t you bleed with me, sirs?"                 
                 
The carnage complete, the heinous men dead  
  Come along, daughter, it’s time for our beds.          
 Yes, I have killed them, and I would do it again  
 I did possess his body, so I could use this pen.                  
                 
I died, though I’m a healer, and had never hurt a soul      
But only while I lived, so they’ve finally paid the toll.      
Vengeance was my sweet, my final taste of life    
Whoever deigns to find this, I hid the cursed knife.    
   
This poem contains my magic,  
And so does the bloody dirk    
Now, with all my gifts to you  
Go complete my work.