The Witch's Lot
Bog berries and frog eyes,
on an afternoon surprise.
At the Witch's Lot.
Where aches fester and rot.
Where witches spin and turn on their cot,
and close their thick thighs,
around flying sticks that rise,
and fly while hot.
Witches strafe above,
riding toward the sky,
in
loud
ecstasy.
Copyright © Seth Diamond | Year Posted 2017
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment