First attempt at hovering.

It's my first attempt, don't tell me it's wrong. 

Hovering above, watching 
the witch bring in gourds that the witch  has to  wash, wrap and count into boxes. 

Distribute to the existing coven. 

Boxes set aside for a taste of Halloween, the semi unnoticed and more than the unseen. 

In the paddock of green. 

Unusual one might comment but she's after a sonnet. 

A song of her own, as she enters the unknowns. 

And a witch she maybe, but it's more about mentality and stability, and about staying free. 

Of all the wishes she can do, she's sorry she was so kind and generous, never got her much respect , as it only appears as a monument in the mountains of fears  . 

And no traveler has made it to the tower, two many golden showers. 

The path is simply too full of brambles, and brains are scrambled. 

​​​​​​And if no one around is grateful for the things you do because of trust issues, how can a which promote the high road not the ditch. 

Everything is unusual, everyone is mixed, the nobody thrown into the mix. 

When I'm finally ready to face my issues, and all ready help others. 

Then why do you reject me so, thee of little faith, no one's lived up to expectation, but who are you to set the pace.

Sometimes it's difficult to be the good guy, everyone exploits him. 

Always the one taken advantage of, but that didn't stop me trusting or loving. 

Always lived in hope that purity would reiterate and return. 

That no one would need concern, for underhandedness would not exist.

And the bond's that bind would not become thorns. 

That all get adorned and adored that stupid is not kindness in the world gone mad. 

Is there any harvest  in the rip off of what we have lived.

which witch we yet to throw the switch, as the gifts are equating to escalating and your hovering is a given may you fly , no broomstick needed, as you never conceded.