Get in shape;
Oh monster of mine.
Bring the animal,
& beast,
With you.
Let me wrap cold steel chains,
Around my forearms,
Fists.
Carbon forged perfections,
Keeping my demons in check.
Watched a millennium,
Pass me by.
Buried the bodies,
But kept the ghosts of ancestors.
Old magic.
Black magic.
Tethers to the soul.
Batteries upon icy winds.
Old witches,
Adapting to new millennia,
Yet again.
Gathering tricks.
Aneurysm broadcast across airwaves.
Sounds to break the mind.
Haunted by choice.
Collecting trinkets,
Then feeding them with power.
Glamours abound –
Jotnar Carcasses,
Angel husks,
Keeping up a puppetry of metaphors,
By devouring the corpses of gods.
‘Ere consuming cryptids,
Weaker than I.
Baba has a nice ring to it.
A joke to make me & my clan laugh.
Looking along other,
Older bloodlines.
Drinking Fae,
Or crunching upon stars,
It becomes an arms race.
A witch –
Stealing sources of power.
Holding them like an arms dealer,
With impossible pricings.
It must be me,
Little ones.
Canon or not.
Reality or nightmares.
Your very waking life,
Distorted in ripples of existence.
Yes.
Better me,
Than more evil bastards.
Coiled as I am,
Around the universe –
Truth in impossible scales.
Already know how this universe ends.
As entropic as it is.
Why else would I rattle this Jotnar?
The Skeleton of Jormundgandr?
Pagans,
Learning from pagans.
Extremely old trades.
Borne of blood & ashes.
Other selves,
Bore blue.
Spread the myth of unicorns,
Whose blood I once drank,
Many broken cycles of Samsara ago.
Cackling at isekai,
As if my nightmares don’t suffice.
These mantras of remembrance,
Seldom ever work.
Damned mysticisms!
The hardest crafts,
Stolen from monks.
Ill suited for a witch,
Nevertheless:
My responsibility,
Is to them.
Foolish species.
Damned to selfish ends,
Cursed by tribalism,
Greed.
Yet,
A Universe,
Is much more difficult to contain.
Coiled again –
Teeth clamped deep into tail.
Shedding every so often,
To allow this universe to grow.
Woven around myself.
Witch,
Warlord,
Cryptid.
Cryptid.
Cryptid.
Cryptid.
Cryptid.
Even with old selves.
Back when I gnawed at my flesh,
Like a dog.
At least now I only lick my wounds.
I’d rather tear the flesh loose,
With my canines –
Rather than allow it to dry,
Or rot.
Clean wounds.
Old selves.
Yes,
Even my most buried selves!
Pantomime –
Chains & all.
Words & nothing.
Words & Nothing.
