"I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was."
- William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act IV, Sc. I

tale tucked tightly between his legs,

angling pointed arrow rising,

gripped and dipped in a bottle of

india ink, writing invitations.

Sweet poison penned words,

sulfur singeing the page:

Come sup at the Devil's table.

Take a seat at the left hand

of god.

Drink the buttermilk

of Babylon.

The witch's third tit milked

into a golden cup.

Take and drink,

she says smiling with

teeth covered in soot.

Aging flesh from

an old crow skewered

on the spine of

a blackened bone.

Take and eat.

This is my boon.

Poisoned pickled prayers

gone sour in the mouths

of babes upon their dying hour,

swinging high from ropes

on trees.

Come play, they sing.

Come play as they fall

into the hell's mouth

waiting.