The Cauldron

You see, I've always hated the word witch, Shaman, medicine man I never really mind,  
but healer now that rolls off the tongue,  
sweet as honey, light as breath.  

And yet, the record spins again,  
Lana’s voice calling the Season of the Witch,
over and over, an old vinyl whisper,  
crackling like firelight in the dark.  

They all think they’re different—  
but they’re all the same.  
Just words shifting shape,  
just names draped in different robes.  

I used to dream of flying,  
too bad I can’t.  
But I trace the patterns,  
watch the synchronicities bloom,  
stay up all night reading the stars & numbers,  
digits dancing, time folding into itself.  

Now, do I believe in that?  
Call it what you want—I don’t care.  
I go to the  source not the echoes,  
why kneel before lower deities ?  

And so, I hit replay—  Season of the Witch

NP