You wanted to know how the Basilisk kills, boy.

You wanted to know how the Basilisk kills, boy.
You wanted to breath the same air as the most vivid witching dream that bound the dream of having you to this broken chest.

You wanted to feel the poisonous dream climbing out of this mind spiraling around sensing you, infecting the air with the deepest desire of a broken one condemned as a witch, and entering you through your beautiful eyes, like wounds in your face.

You wanted to lick this soul leaking out to you. You gave us words to open up the hole deep inside, and reach out of the shadows.

You wanted to know how the Basilisk kills, boy.
But you never will, because this witch will never let it reach you.

I will swallow the poison, and breath all the darkness, and cloak the air with another witching dream of you to never leave.

But you have already left, and neither the poison nor the dream will reach you ever again.
Neither the desire nor the poison ever transformed your delicious soul.

But you woke something up.
Not just the raging death inside the beast close to us witches.
No, also the desires and dreams and hopes that the broken chest of this witch carries.

And you never stayed long enough to know.