Bewitcher of the wood

Softly ever so, craving the subtleties of her flesh on his fingertips
he reaches out to her but a ghost in the mist drabbed in a blue shift.
Her soft voice singing lullaby lures, haunts the very air he breaths.
So his feet conspire with the tune as they drag him deeper through the trees.

In haste and clambers to unmask his quarry, he fails to heed direction
His way is lost the mist to thick but that voice, her voice of lust sings on
Getting louder, nearer, her warmth he feels warmer, yet his sight is still unsure
then there in the dist’, a light so warm, the glint of fire homely and pure

Beneath a tree, giant, clearing clears and a ramshackle residence cowers
before its door lay tribute and trays, stone stale bread and milk turned sour
a blade of light cuts deep through the night, the opening portal reveals a palace
while over the shack the oaken roots that grow ancient, brood with malice

hungered, tired, smelling wickedness but cold screaming in fingertips
wiser men turned, fled, yet he stayed to again glimpse that blue shift
night around him scuttled close, boughs leaned, oppressed, the wood breaths
voice sultry, honey, lust, lilted ears feared, thus into the shack he fled the trees

opulence warmth fire and food there her discarded blue shift points direction
abed, feather stuffed, naked beauty unmatched the bewitcher lulls and sings on
her gestures unholy yet sweet words spill to lure, he disrobes approaches still unsure
between covers slides he then between her he slips her skills prove a woman un-pure

lust fully sated she closes her trap, now upon a glamored crone he cowers
witch he knows, to late to aid, the old hag revealed his passions turned sour
wrinkled delicate arms wrap him tight, warn blood flows, he still buried deep in her palace
and there he will stay till she bleeds him away, as her lusts hid olny malice

Bewitcher of the wood


Joined November 2007

  • Artist


ravage satyr

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