When the fire had burned down, she wished she could have loved as someone else.
As the faithful housewife.
As the promising young woman.
When the last flames where crackling, she wished she had not loved as the witch.
Equipped with needles.
Once the storm was over, she wished she could have kissed as someone else.
As the innocent daughter.
Ready to be handed over into caring hands.
When there was violet light at the horizon, she wished she could have not kissed as the witch.
Giggling with a creaking voice.
As the cup was empty, she wished she could have held someone who was ready to love the faithful, promising young woman.
Not the witch, cooking a violet cloud, once the coffee was enjoyed.
Loved as a witch
Despite needles and giggles
In violet clouds
…was more than he could bear
…was more than the world would grant.
“But we love as witches”, Layla agrees and today I struggle to empty my cup.
Mistress witch writes 