The Witch

She stood in the silver mist of the twilight,
Where the sun sluggishly drained from the windows.
The stained glass of the temples – colorful titans –
Cast sickly shadows upon the bones of the walls.

A figure – not a saint, but a descent into stillness
Beside a fire that did not warm, but testified.
The whisper of prayer flew not to God –
But to the void wearing the face of a soul.

Ink-stained fingers, yellowed from the words
That burned the universe like acid.
She touched the parchment – the letters grew wet,
As if a star had shattered against a sharp name.

The crowd, with poison in their gaze, called her a witch,
Because they could not bear the truth in her voice.
Their pleading – a whisper of fear,
Yours – a frantic cry of epiphany.

And I… I called you Poetess.
You did not cast spells – you sculpted rhymes from pain.
Every glance of yours is a frozen poem
On the withered, ancient flesh of the world.

You did not paint with blood – you wrote with it
Not on paper – but on the ribs of time.
Your voice changed the vector of the wind,
And my path – you reshaped it to the core.

You killed my fear – and awakened a thirst.
Oh Witch, Poetess, stitched from words and shadows,
Let me walk once more along the lines of touch,
As if upon the blades of broken glass
Or the shards of holy salvation.

For only in you did I learn
To love the sweet curse,
And in every moan of pain
To hear a symphony of confession.