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Turn dark bright moon, your light has shon, time has passed, but not moved on, the cruelties unto you bestowed, oh maiden, mother and crone.
Many times I brood alone Thinking of the world’s melancholy mourning Bearing the weight of creation Upon my hateful human heart, Until a presence fills me
Under the light of the shimmering stars You think to yourself just who you are A wandering child, a kin of the Earth
Hand written with a quill pen, Growing each day, My Wiccan spellbook is my pride and joy. I look at it every day, And it reminds me, Of who I was, am, and will continue to be.
Shudder and scream! A witch grows near! This is not a dream, for the witch is here. History is wrong. A bad story told for far too long.
Sun lost, Demeter’s tears, For so the land hath slumbered here, For the once warm air now dull and queer, Stop! Something rustles in the dark, Hark! Someone approaches like a lark.
This November I went O’er my previous sights I saw a glorious view in a bright hue, It’s Wicca, a new horizon but an old way. I come to it openly and with a heavy heart I dance, I ride, I feel the music and nature,
Life grows from her ribs Feminine Beauty and Strength She is Cool The very Air you breathe She is Fierce The very Sun you absorb She is Sturdy The very Earth you rest your feet on
The ignorance of peopleAlong with the pain I'm dealing with insideAnd slowly driving me mad
(poems go here) How sublime are You, veiled in mist. The rain, Your dress, cast off Only a cloak and veil remaining. How numinous. How lovely. How strong are You, crouched in mist.
Why do you tell me that what I believe is wrong How would you feel if i said that you're wrong I hate how you hear Wiccan/Pagan and think devil worshipper But the jokes on you I don't believe in the devil