The Witches’ Taunt

Chilling whisper in your blood

Drilling down to reach the flood.

Filling up the gaping hole;

Grilling just to eat your soul.

Killing time, time and again;

Milling vice and fault and sin.

Quilling tallies of the lot;

Spilling blood to water thought.

Stilling hearts and prayers to stone;

Tilling brick and mud and bone.

Thrilling vapors fill your chest,

Willing death to all the rest.