The Spell Is Thus:
“She shall be my finest Jester.
Stand atop the world,
Dancing her finest to her own beat,
& drum.
Be it rimshot or renegade –
Ferocity & ambition is the game.
She must be fierce.
Hunger at greater goods.
Right hand of such a Titan.
Independent –
Yet collaborative as an ensemble.
Hark!
Writ as farce, satire, & parody;
In an age of Metaphor,
Battling banal evils.
This is not another Heroic Epic.
Yet every evil is banality;
For my right hand must be mighty.
Sure in her strength,
Cleverness,
& wit.
No other upon The Witches’ Dozen,
Shall be as powerful,
As enabled,
As she.”
Hacking wheezes –
The force of magic in conjuring a wish upon the world. Even a Hag, Witch as old as I, struggles with such weight. Pausing to breathe in the world, holding the spell in utero upon a fingertip. Sometimes one must dip into Cryptid Metaphor to fuel such infinities as wishes.
Roiling the weave & fabric of Reality, Brushing Literal Destiny & Fate In Hyperbole From My Discernment, Exerting pure willpower in exultant force enough to wrench dimensions or souls & hearts as one needs.
I’m exerting myself fairly. Conjuring a saviour, to stand at my side at the end of days.
Not for me. For them.
No Black Magic Too Dark.
Already Worship & War With Entropy Itself.
Amongst other dalliances, humor welling up to simmer & bubble the edges of my spell, as it becomes one steel cable – intertwined with others in braided truths: Morality. Honour. Justice. Laughter. Hope.
It’s all falling apart.
But that was always the point.
Telling Morbid Truths, With Cheeky Grins:
“Strong.
Kind.
Quick of wit & want.
Someone prone to impulse,
Yet tempered by pangs of anxiety –
Who knows a fragment –
Sliver of the neurodivergences I live.
Of The Witches’ Dozen:
Leader.
Role Model.
Trustworthy at least,
Completely transparent in communication,
At best.
Hunting ones who can help me save my homeworld.
She need not be the strongest.
That’s what I must become –
In order to lend her my strengths.
Need not be the smartest –
Though I’d love clever rivals.
Platonic;
Yet devoted.
Worthy of my Blood Oath:
Sworn to handful,
Fewer by hour & day.
Death in thy defense,
Mind in thy pursuits,
Enchanting & Enabling:
Across all the ways I can.
Unto Truth & Reconciliation.
At Last.
Brighter Futures.
There’re two kinds:
Those wanting others to suffer,
As they did.
Others,
Never want anyone,
To experience the horrors they did.”
“Once Upon A Time.”
Aye,
I bled enough today to seal the braids,
Clipping,
Filing,
Razoring,
Too aggressively.
This:
Hex.
That:
Curse.
Left:
Blood Curse.
Right:
World Spell.
Both Above & Below:
Prophecy, Poem, Spell, Metaphor,
Witch Dictating Wishes In A Thousand Tongues.
Her Baba is waiting.
As my Baba waited for me.
