The Witch Returns

Silence came with a great exhale
The land heaved with the unexpected weight
Dark, ghastly, agonizing, and unsettled
Turbulent winds ripped through the trees
Thick limbs straining, debris swirling
As the midnight stroke came without a chiming
Chaos hung like wet moss on jagged branches
Not an announcement, but a bold message
Whispers of change rode in on the thick night air
Something’s stirring, something’s coming
That which was long forgotten, now remembered
Destiny and the sharp crack of winter lightning
Splitting the silence like a heated blade
An unholy white fire raged across an angry sky
Supercharged air gathering power from all directions
The moment of reckoning has come at last
An unprepared world and the visitor
With fury unfolding, the witch returns
Her’s is a tale that the world tried to hide
Needed to hide for the preservation of many
But alas, the mantle of failure evidenced
Locks left unattended, keys dissolved to rust
And the keepers failed to pass the torch
Truely, they tried, and then they died
Elders held space until the numbers dwindled
Fewer and fewer kept the circle
The fated anniversary day passed
On that night when no one came
Not a voice to turn the page and speak the words
The spell released, the countdown began
Ninety-nine years and ninety-nine days
Unstoppable, like the sands of time
Her power grew with the rising of the moon
She gathered strength while biding time
No witness bore, nor a prophecy
Not even a myth or mountain lore
Just that of a woman chained
Her crime long forgotten, yet her flesh remembers
Names of the ones who passed judgement
Weak women and weaker men
Testing her with tests that all would fail
And those of the long black robes
Snarling lips and yellowed teeth shouting ‘guilty’
As if she ever had a chance at all
Witchcraft used against the witch
From ancient tomes they read ancient rites
Binding her body, committing her soul
Drug deep beneath the earth, cast in iron and stone
A crypt her final resting place
That was the plan, until it wasn’t
Old ideas that lost direction
Her body stiff but her mind free
Plotting and planning, she waited
Strength gathered, until her moment arrived
Freedom to move, to speak, to stand
Body moving like a trembling fault line
With each step she shed the shackles and chains
Her gaze fixed, dangerous and penetrating
Stone fell to ash, and wood to fire
Bathed in moonlight, doused in gloom
The dark forest welcomes her
Ancient trees bend to meet her eyes
Branches curved in an unholy embrace
She moves like a dark river
Slithering beasts find her open hands
Mist rises from the damp forest floor
Vines shift and blooms wither
The witch has arrived to claim her home
Soon she’ll seek to claim much more

Additional Reading

R.J. (Ralph) Schwartz is an American poet, author, website owner, and online publisher. His writing spans several poetry collections—ranging from spiritual and romantic to fear-driven explorations—and even extends into science fiction. Notable works include:

  • Hope – Inspirational and Spiritual Poetry

  • Things That Go Bump in the Night – Poetry of Fear and Fright

  • The Lover’s Thread – Poetry for Couples

  • Poetry of the Human Condition – The Ups and Downs of Modern Living

  • The Secrets of the Moon (a sci-fi novel co-authored with his son Sebastian J. Schwartz)

Schwartz’s work is described as purposefully wordy, richly descriptive, and thematically grounded in nature, romance, antiquity, and forgotten historiesHe writes regularly on platforms he manages, including The Creative Exiles, a collaborative venue for writers, and The Gypsy Thread, which delves into offbeat histories, pagan lore, and poetry.

R J Schwartz
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R J Schwartz

I write about everything and sometimes nothing at all. I'm fascinated by old things, rusty things, abandoned places, or anywhere that a secret might be unearthed. I'm passionate about history and many of my pieces are anchored in one concept of time or another. I've always been a writer, dating back to my youth, but the last decade has been a time of growth for me. I'm continually pushing the limitations of vocabulary, syntax, and descriptive phrasing.

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