The Rituals.A Poem by Thomas FitzgeraldMy first edit in a long, long time - enjoy.Pepper the ashes in urns sit closely to the bone, Incantation of the Latin name now barren, Twitching lips tell false truths you hear, Slipping time she calls Marigje Arrien. Flaxen shadows do not hurt but warn, Of fingers glued in measured hyssop, Open thy sky and fear thy night, You fly with wings dear Bridget Bishop. Smiles lay heavy in hearts not allowed, Men measure your worth by craving upon, Willow leafs may hold a neck in thread, Non dissenting poor fellow Nyzette Cheveron. Masked in magic's bending will and choice, Little dances have crates on noted story, Electric flows free from fingertips pink, Ah the devil dances with Martha Corey. Listen people you have heard all the tasks, Go forth now, learn of women alone, Men make power hard and unruly, Surely time makes hearts cold stone. © 2020 Thomas FitzgeraldAuthor's Note
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StatsAuthorThomas FitzgeraldWexford, Leinster, IrelandAboutTo all who know by now - I love you. For those that don't, I review a lot of work on here, and I expect the same in return, friend me but make sure to have conviction! I'm a horror writer mostly bu.. more..Writing
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