Witches gather in covens, thirteen,
A prime that exists alone.
Six mothers, six daughters convene—
Yet the rule belongs to the Crone.
When at last the Crone does fall,
A mother is sought to rise,
A daughter takes the mother’s place,
Once the small infant girl cries.
The daughters of witches are fair,
Their mothers exude dark desire,
They lure men unto their daughters,
Stirring their loins with hot fire.
Igniting their lust to arise,
Infernos forbidden in flame.
Lured between ivory thighs,
Consumed within their wanton game.
The infants are loved by all,
None more so than the Crone,
Safe in darkness they slumber,
Cradled on the witching throne.
Children are raised in their way,
Learning the path of the Wyrd,
Burgeoning with hidden might.
Their progress carefully steered.
Each witch receives her dread knife,
Dark and phallic, a dreadful candle;
Their innocence is torn apart,
By its cold, commanding handle.
Innocent blood falls from the knife,
Slowly, from its darkened grip.
Dark Altar consumes her offering,
Her soul flickers, candles they drip.
Each witch must choose a patron,
A towering dark prince of hell,
He’ll demand far more that blood,
A crippling soul-crushing foul spell.
Power bears a dread-dark price,
Her fate known evermore,
Knowledge of how, when, and where
Casts her through hell’s gaping maw.
Taking her place in her Coven,
Welcomed as sister and child,
Beginning the coven’s dread work,
Now her soul has been defiled.
Through endless years she’ll pay her dues,
As daughter; as mother; atone,
Power strips beauty from fair face,
Ascending, the Crone sits alone.
In silence the Crone looks on,
While darkness crowns her head,
The cradle rocks in shadow,
The thirteenth knows her fate with dread.
