Witchcraft

Hung Witch

 

The Haunt

Which hangs,

In the air

Like static, unspent.

Is the fear of time, and purpose wasted.

Everyday which goes by,
 (Bye, bye)

Without a routine,
(With, or without?)

It can scratch against my ‘ground’

Like a big fat Bat (or a rat)

Round  bound   (hush hush, why why!?)
Hard sweeping brush.

It’s etching away at the trail which I’d marked myself, in the vain hope I could ever, if needed, turn to the tattooed ground.
(What, and be found?)

To remind myself of the way I am headed, and the way I have come.

The path upon which, I thought I had gained some footing, it’s fading.
(and i’m not far behind)

It is during these moments, when locked inside,

A tightly binding labyrinth,

Of excessive reflection, that I long for the traveller’s Compass, to remind me of…

Which direction to take? In order, to step forwards and march on!

 

Sometimes, the colours on life’s map become faded.

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