paganism
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Night
Dappled and worn through the excesses of time,
modest moonlight filters in
through the gauze of the dancing curtain
A flowering brush silently drips and perspires under the regulation of the dawn.
Bees spawn amongst the first lit blooms, humoring the early bird.
Under the light of the shimmering stars
You think to yourself just who you are
A wandering child, a kin of the Earth
Yes, I am called a witch,
And sometimes I am not,
yes I do magick, but it is through rituals and such
No I do not worship the devil, nor any demons
That is not wicca, that is not pagan,
The fallen leaves scatter the ground.The trees stand bare. No shade is foundAround the grove as fall creeps inAs September-Man walks on within.
As the wind blowedIn the Nemeton groveThe Druids all gathered 'round.
As the fire dancedAnd the leader spoke chants,No one else made a sounds.
Take the branches of these trees:Of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn.Make them into a human shape.On top, a crown of horns.
I knew there was something truly magical about the trees.
My little sister,
nature's mortal fae,
taught me how to speak to the trees.
It was the most amazing phenomenon
