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The Woman Who Came From The Peat Bog

You've called on the spirits For grace and peace to be cast upon each piece of you, down to your spit. You've called on a woman, and yes she has come, but her image is pale and draws the pink from your lips. For a dead body is what you've chosen to frisk. Though animated, and acting through perhaps a series of tiks Her rigor mortis viens are plump and thick. Her husband to her side, though he stayed in his pit. Not like him, her ways weren't of God, and her soul perpetually alift- Wanderer and Vagrant and a Beauty her cold skin- every inch... Watching, she simply sits.. On heavy-eyed callers, who call themselves "out of thier wits". And her dead heart cares for them, about until they expire, it's not her, it's that not quite passed on soul- stuck because this was her gift. Every lover loves thier hand dug ditch. Handed to the sky, but not before your meeting with this some lilith. Spiny fingers and split nails extend their hand stitched gift to your rose scented crypt. A woman unhindered by gray hairs and sagging lids, how curiously unafraid and unhinghed. Her eyes stoned to heavy to close, see through dirt and find nymphalids- To roam alone the road of choice, through rotting trees of far gone away a high speed jig. She was the Merchant soloist of the bigwigs, Run through the acrid, too fast- the athodyd. The sin in the soul carefully undid...the sun from the sky, where before her it would live. Down, down, and downer forever- you've found her, you've found her, you've found her- a such..... Your hands draw wavy lines and you've corrupted the grid. And there she is stood there, ammassing from dust her figure swallows the sorry surrounding air. A summons, a wish, someone to be the bitch.... There she is- The Dead-Headed Witch.

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