Spells & Rituals

Why does everyone want to be a witch, and can I be one too?

Forget princesses and fairies – how boring.

Though, fairies bite and kick ass, so I am told.

No, I want black, long and flowing,

A stream of allure in obsidian darkness.

Silver rings that sparkle and glint, as a crow’s eye.

I want to be powerful, know thyself they say.

I want to feel part of a secret society,

The unknown women’s society.

With quiet knowing’s, a sly look, and a wink.

Freemasons of women, for women.

I want to run free, hellishly dancing as I choose.

No restraints, no constraints, no, no, no.

I want a hat, pointy and tall, that warns of danger.

Shadowing my face in mystery, as a widow’s veil might.

Pointy shoes, ever so dainty with Victorian heels,

Clicking upon marble floors, with an air of authority.

I want a black cat, that purrs in my ear,

A familiar comfort, watching with feigned interest.

Tarot cards to shuffle,

held in my hands, as a devilish spread.

And a wand to wave, as a sword in battle,

Made by a Gypsy for a silver charm.

I’ll need a Grimoire, all witches do,

I shall write spells in oak gall ink,

And draw Sigils from angel’s wings,

I’m sure they won’t miss a feather or two.

So, mote it be, is what I shall say,

Three times a day,

A witch I shall be

A Witch I shall be

A witch I shall be