the witches tree

In the heart of a forsaken wood,
Where shadows twist and writhe,
There stands a tree of ancient blood,
A sentinel of death and blight.

Its gnarled branches, twisted, cruel,
Reach out like claws of night,
A harbinger of doom and rule,
A beacon of eternal fright.

Beneath its boughs, the witches hung,
Their curses whispered low,
Their bodies swayed, their souls were wrung,
In the tree’s malevolent glow.

The bark, as black as midnight’s veil,
Is etched with runes of dread,
A testament to every wail,
Of those who met their end.

The roots, they drink of sorrow’s tears,
And feast on blood and pain,
They whisper secrets, stoke the fears,
Of those who dare remain.

The wind that howls through twisted limbs,
Carries a mournful cry,
A symphony of ghostly hymns,
Of witches doomed to die.

The tree, it lives on hate and spite,
A creature born of sin,
It revels in the darkest night,
And draws the darkness in.

Its leaves, they rustle with a sound,
Of whispers from the grave,
A chilling dirge that does confound,
The bravest of the brave.

For in this tree, an evil dwells,
A spirit dark and vile,
It casts its wicked, ancient spells,
And revels all the while.