Rituals.

I am the bride’s head Severed from the body I live in the future, Where science cannot follow And I seek out the prophetic god The one who’s seen it all I ask for his hand in marriage And he gives me my own (even though I had left it behind) So I reject him For he gave me what I already had I continue traveling the distant path In a small clearing I come upon a witch (She has a sugar house) Seated on a stool in the front yard Tending a burning, boiling, black pot Snacking on a child’s bones I am the bride’s head, hesitating So she asks me what I want “A place in the sun.” And she laughs The wolf, who is the moon, has eaten it And it will not be back till it rises over the horizon The end of night Which she assures me will never come As long as I am looking at the world through my own eyes I ask to borrow hers She screams And cowers in her house Licking her fingers clean I cry, a single tear, (I was misunderstood) And continue on my way The woods play tricks on my eyes as