When A Witch Becomes A Pale Bride (Bishop Of Hexen)

Muster scarce trails to pursue the final tales I might appeal once quizzed, tested & feeled Oh, these cuts-cut-open and observed Though barely alive-cautiously preserved Molested are my cries Dispersed like transparent rime Yet strangely I see trees Which assail with stabbing scenes Thus maladies & their remedies mix So violently they create loathsome tricks Labyrinth of angles-so twisted Shape & form the inevitable- Through the hexen's mind Through the sharpness of her nails Into her grim thoughts he now sails Lame and sterile pain Becomes now the most desirable pain Washed to a pond of tears Emptied to a valley of the gifted fears Goblets of wisdom dried When a witch becomes a pale bride To the raving beauty of a doubt A garland-old & worn-out "Here lies he who never lyed Whose skill so often hath been tryed Their prophecies shall still survive And ever keep their name alive"