u/Livid_Climate6923

a valley of filth

putrid as the tar 

latching itself to the bottom of my shoe 

I want nothing more 

than to be rid of

I should have known to back away long ago.

why did I not?

I knew I should

I knew the path the

witch would lead me down

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1vb1wgn/comment/p1r18sg/?context=3

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1vfp9e7/comment/p1r0yhk/?context=3

She sat before her cauldron, slowly stirring her essence. The sweet aroma drifted through the room. Her beautiful eyes remained fixed on the swirling potion that morphed into a soft delightful green. The air outside was cool but the room stayed warm. Her potion was ready.

Using a large ladle a single serving size was put away into a single clay cup. The cup was on the table to the side, & there it sat. wooden. There it cooled & there it rose. From the cup grew a single stem that sprouted a singular flower blossoming in candle light. In its center lay a single seed like a pearl in a clam.

She plucked the pearl & placed it away in a small silk bag.

A short walk into town where her robes drifted just above the earth. Floating like an angel in the moonlight. She stopped in front of a house. A normal house of a single man. Just in front of his door a small hole was dug, the silk bag was removed from her pocket & the seed was dropped into the hole then finally covered up. As soon as she arrived she vanished back into the woods to where she resides.

The next morning a small knock was heard at the front door of the witches hide away. It was the man who lived in the house holding a large bunch of flowers. His eyes were glossy & white & his smile was large. Once he saw the witch he extended both hands that were tightly holding the flowers for her in hopes she would accept. With an equally large smile she did & wrapped her poisonous arms around him. He was under her spell.

They spent all day & night together. He did everything & more that she wished for. He made her breakfast, collected more flowers & took her all around town. Then they did it again the next day & the next day & the next day.

The man never slept under her spell & his appetite vanished when his eyes first glossed over. All he could see was her. All he could think about was her. She was all he ever wanted. He did everything he could & more.

His friends and neighbors began to worry as he seemingly disappeared in the night weeks ago but he could not be happier lost in the mist of the witch's beauty. Before the sun would rise he would make sure she had a full bouquet of flowers. When all the flowers around the house were plucked clean he would go across the river and then farther and farther until one day he came home late with bloody hands and feet begging for forgiveness because he couldn't find any good enough for her. 

One day the witch found herself less interested with his gifts. She loved how he would always deliver her flowers or food but the same tricks no longer fascinated her. One day he found himself sick as his stomach began to eat itself & his eyes hollowed from starvation. He was unable to move from & his use was now up.

The witch looked at the weak decrepit body & said "I think I am full"

The man's soul no longer intact laid there motionless just able to breathe. Yet still he tried to pull himself together to go serve the witch. He knew she needed him. The sound of air could be heard squeaking through his vocal cords while every inhale was sharp & sour. His bones from his arms to ribs to cheeks were clearly visible & his skin ran paper thin. He was as pale as his eyes that resembled the fog that surrounded the witches hideaway.

Wheezing weakly a new man picked him up from the floor. Eyes just as glossy & white. He removed him from the premises to a tree nearby.  A hole was already dug 6 feet deep where he was dropped like a seed into. Bones breaking & crunching under the weight of his fall. Just as the man who lived in his grave did before him the new toy shoveled dirt onto his still breathing body that was leaking blood & starred above in agony.

The dirt slowly covered the fresh man until the light of the outside world was no more. Slowly covering the light of his glossy eyes. Never to see the beauty of the witch again. 

She sat before her cauldron, slowly stirring her essence. The sweet aroma drifted through the room. Her beautiful eyes remained fixed on the swirling potion that morphed into a soft delightful green. The air outside was cool but the room stayed warm. Her potion was ready.

Using a large ladle a single serving size was put away into a single clay cup. The cup was on the table to the side, & there it sat. wooden. There it cooled & there it rose. From the cup grew a single stem that sprouted a singular flower blossoming in candle light. In its center lay a single seed like a pearl in a clam.

She plucked the pearl & placed it away in a small silk bag.

A short walk into town where her robes drifted just above the earth. Floating like an angel in the moonlight. She stopped in front of a house. A normal house of a single man. Just in front of his door a small hole was dug, the silk bag was removed from her pocket & the seed was dropped into the hole then finally covered up. As soon as she arrived she vanished back into the woods to where she resides.

The next morning a small knock was heard at the front door of the witches hide away. It was the man who lived in the house holding a large bunch of flowers. His eyes were glossy & white & his smile was large. Once he saw the witch he extended both hands that were tightly holding the flowers for her in hopes she would accept. With an equally large smile she did & wrapped her poisonous arms around him. He was under her spell.

They spent all day & night together. He did everything & more that she wished for. He made her breakfast, collected more flowers & took her all around town. Then they did it again the next day & the next day & the next day.

The man never slept under her spell & his appetite vanished when his eyes first glossed over. All he could see was her. All he could think about was her. She was all he ever wanted. He did everything he could & more.

His friends and neighbors began to worry as he seemingly disappeared in the night weeks ago but he could not be happier lost in the mist of the witch's beauty. Before the sun would rise he would make sure she had a full bouquet of flowers. When all the flowers around the house were plucked clean he would go across the river and then farther and farther until one day he came home late with bloody hands and feet begging for forgiveness because he couldn't find any good enough for her. 

One day the witch found herself less interested with his gifts. She loved how he would always deliver her flowers or food but the same tricks no longer fascinated her. One day he found himself sick as his stomach began to eat itself & his eyes hollowed from starvation. He was unable to move from & his use was now up.

The witch looked at the weak decrepit body & said "I think I am full"

The man's soul no longer intact laid there motionless just able to breathe. Yet still he tried to pull himself together to go serve the witch. He knew she needed him. The sound of air could be heard squeaking through his vocal cords while every inhale was sharp & sour. His bones from his arms to ribs to cheeks were clearly visible & his skin ran paper thin. He was as pale as his eyes that resembled the fog that surrounded the witches hideaway.

Wheezing weakly a new man picked him up from the floor. Eyes just as glossy & white. He removed him from the premises to a tree nearby.  A hole was already dug 6 feet deep where he was dropped like a seed into. Bones breaking & crunching under the weight of his fall. Just as the man who lived in his grave did before him the new toy shoveled dirt onto his still breathing body that was leaking blood & starred above in agony.

The dirt slowly covered the fresh man until the light of the outside world was no more. Slowly covering the light of his glossy eyes. Never to see the beauty of the witch again. 

feel my nightly poison

take me where my memory blurs

maybe when I close my eyes

I’ll see you again

feel my nightly poison

take me where my memory blurs

maybe when I close my eyes

I’ll see you again

The dead walk among us

Like scattered dreams and memories

Still flesh and bone

Breathing as you and I

Until they don’t

We sat in the grand ballroom of my great-grandfather’s estate sale. The chairs were lined up like I was back at his funeral. This room had more chairs, however. Instead of his oak wood casket, a podium sat at the center of the stage under pristine lighting. An older gentleman in a black suit stood behind it, his hair and beard just beginning to gray. His attention was focused on the notes he shuffled in his hands.

People continued to be ushered toward their seats. The sounds of high heels and Oxfords echoed across the green opal marble floor until enough bodies filled the room to dampen the noise. Everyone was dressed beautifully. Once everyone was seated on the velvet-red, gold-lined cushioned chairs, chatter filled the air.The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by a few open curtains. The faint light bounced off the large chandelier that hung heavily from the vaulted ceilings.

Standing where bands used to play for guests when I was a child, The older gentleman in the suit spoke into the microphone. "Welcome, all," he called out, and the room began to fall silent, attention shifting to his presence. "Thank you for attending the estate auction for Benjamin Caswell. I will be your host tonight as we walk through history and help find his worldly possessions new homes."

Item by item was pulled onto the stage by two young gentlemen dressed identically to our auctioneer. As each one sold, they brought it off. Paintings that could not physically fit on the walls of most standard homes sold for tens to hundreds of millions right in front of me. Old historical pieces were bought up by museums alongside various other collector's items.

I felt more and more out of place. I wore my best dress, matching heels, and the best red lipstick I could get my hands on. I looked the part—much better than any of these white-haired compatriots—but the cheapest thing I saw would have paid off all my debt and held me over until my face wrinkled like theirs.

Why did I come here? I thought. I was invited because I was family, but none of this was meant for me. He had left the entire estate and the company to his son, my uncle.

My uncle was the only one to ever work in the family business. That horrible drunk probably has more DUIs and allegations against him than he has IQ points. He was the only one to work with my great-grandfather and while he had been running the company straight into the ground since he became too old to manage it, he was still viewed as the only trusted one. He received everything.

My uncle was the only other family member here, since no one else could ever dream of affording anything in this room. And he was sitting right next to me.

"Hey," he whispered to me, the heavy stench of scotch hanging on his every word. "I'll tell you what. Even though you only live down the street... so it wasn't too hard for you to get here. And since I am such a good uncle... and since I am making so much fucking money on this shit. I'll tell you what. And here it is..."

He stopped, leaned back, and burped into his closed mouth. Blowing the burp forward, he took a sip of his scotch, his ice cubes rattling against his empty glass. He leaned back in to keep whispering. "I'll tell you what. You can get one thing from this auction... on me." he offered as he tossed a green bidding paddle with red numbers on it at me.

What a generous offer, I thought sarcastically. The feeling of “why was I even here?" was inescapable now. This was all a massive mistake.

"Now I'm going to go have a cigarette, and I'll tell you what..." His voice slowed as he stood up, stumbling and swaying next to me. "I'll tell you what. You can have one too if you want."

"No, thank you," I responded.

"Suit yourself," he said as he began to make his way down the aisle, forcing people to pull in their legs to allow him to pass as if he were navigating a crowded cinema.

That balding, beer-bellied buffoon really knew nothing about me. Down the street? I lived over seven hours away and had to book a hotel room just to be here. I had been terrified that I would never again see the home that brought me so many memories as a young girl—sitting by the lake outside, picking strawberries, and spending all the family holidays here. I just had to see it one last time.

And offering me a cigarette? Did he not remember my mother, his sister, being diagnosed with lung cancer from those evil sticks? Maybe he didn't care. Maybe he thought it was just one less person to share the inheritance with. Well, he didn't have to worry about that now; 

I sat there and watched them cycle through more art—pieces that used to decorate the very halls I once wandered. There was one very long hallway where I used to dress up and walk the catwalk imagining I was a runway model. Great-grandfather would always applaud. "Good show, good show!" he would tell me with a large smile, clapping his hands.

I began to tear up again just thinking about it. Then, the next item was brought up onto the stage. It was a tea pot. What was that doing there? I thought, watching the auction spotlight reflect off its silver surface. We used to use that exact pot close to every day for "tea time." It couldn't possibly be worth anything to anyone else.

"King Louis's most famous tea pot," the auctioneer explained to the crowd. "Made of silver, this was the tea pot held at many of his meetings, and one of his very last luxuries before being put to death."

The crowd murmured, exchanging silent looks, 'oohs,' and 'ahs.' Except this piece belonged to me.

"Start the bidding at 3.2 million," the auctioneer announced.

I raised the bidding paddle my uncle had thrown at me.

"3.2 million for the young lady in green," the auctioneer said, pointing directly toward me. A few heads turned to inspect their competition.

Suddenly, my uncle burst back into the room.

That damn fool walked in before anything else could happen. With the ruckus he created, he instantly became the center of attention. Every head in the auction house looked at him as he stumbled down the aisle.

"Hey!" he slurred loudly. "That's my tea pot! Give it to me!" His drunken finger pointed aggressively toward the stage.

The two young men helping move items went to intercept him.

"Do I hear 3.5 million?" the auctioneer pressed on, attempting to regain the attention of the crowd.

"Do you not fucking hear me?!" my uncle shouted at the auctioneer and the attendants.

He took a step forward. The two young men held their hands out to block him from approaching the now fearful-looking auctioneer. "I own fucking everything here! Now give me back my fucking tea pot!" The last few words were almost impossible to decode, but the message was clear.

The room fell dead silent, minus his heavy, drunken huffing and puffing. The two young men looked back at the auctioneer, who gave a small, defeated nod. They let my uncle pass.

I watched as a knot of fear tightened in my stomach. He walked right onto the stage with all eyes on him—billion-dollar business owners, foreign royalty, and some of the most powerful men and women in the world. He grabbed the tea pot and walked right back off the stage. Every single head followed his movement, eyes trained on him as he cut through the room.

My heart ached. I wanted to say something—anything—but I couldn't find the words. Even if I did, he would never understand or listen to someone while he was that boozed up.

"I am going to go make another drink if anyone wants one," he slurred to the crowd, stumbling out of the room and throwing the grand doors open.

The ballroom was left completely silent. The only thing moving were the tears walking down off my cheeks and two young men on stage rushing a new art piece into the spotlight, and the auctioneer cleared his throat to start again. 

I paid no attention. I wiped my eyes and followed the path my uncle had taken, heading out to the nearest bathroom.I closed and locked the decorated bathroom door. Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, I tried to pull myself together. I could hear the faint, muffled sounds of the auction continuing down the hall.

"What was I doing here?" I asked aloud into my tear-covered hands.

A few minutes passed. I cleaned myself up and opened the door, ready to leave this entire nightmare behind. As I walked toward the front entrance, I passed the family room. We all used to play board games here and open Christmas presents. My gaze drifted past the corner where the  tree used to stand and on the coffee table, an old Santa toy sat exactly where it always used to be, looking back at me and forcing a soft chuckle. This would be the last time I ever saw this room—a place that held so many of my favorite memories.

Then I heard it. A deep, rattling snore that could only come from an ogre or a troll in deep hibernation echoed through the space. I looked over. It was my uncle, passed out face-down behind the back of the couch, reeking of stale cigarettes.

One arm dangled over the side of the cushions, while the other was pinned awkwardly beneath him. One leg was hiked up over the armrest at a strange angle, and his cheek was pressed violently against the fabric, squishing his face. It was a thoroughly unflattering sight. The old oaf was completely dead to the world, snoring away.

Then, glimmering softly in the morning rays of the sun, I saw it. Resting on its side right next to his drooped, unconscious hand was the silver tea pot.

My vision focused. My heart raced. My head snapped around to check the hallway. My feet moved on instinct. My body bent down, and my hands wrapped securely around the silver handle.

I held it tight against my chest and looked around one last time. The coast was clear and I made my escape.

Thank you, uncle, I thought with a smirk. You dumb drunk idiot.

We sat in the grand ballroom of my great-grandfather’s estate sale. The chairs were lined up like I was back at his funeral. This room had more chairs, however. Instead of his oak wood casket, a podium sat at the center of the stage under pristine lighting. An older gentleman in a black suit stood behind it, his hair and beard just beginning to gray. His attention was focused on the notes he shuffled in his hands.

People continued to be ushered toward their seats. The sounds of high heels and Oxfords echoed across the green opal marble floor until enough bodies filled the room to dampen the noise. Everyone was dressed beautifully. Once everyone was seated on the velvet-red, gold-lined cushioned chairs, chatter filled the air.The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by a few open curtains. The faint light bounced off the large chandelier that hung heavily from the vaulted ceilings.

Standing where bands used to play for guests when I was a child, The older gentleman in the suit spoke into the microphone. "Welcome, all," he called out, and the room began to fall silent, attention shifting to his presence. "Thank you for attending the estate auction for Benjamin Caswell. I will be your host tonight as we walk through history and help find his worldly possessions new homes."

Item by item was pulled onto the stage by two young gentlemen dressed identically to our auctioneer. As each one sold, they brought it off. Paintings that could not physically fit on the walls of most standard homes sold for tens to hundreds of millions right in front of me. Old historical pieces were bought up by museums alongside various other collector's items.

I felt more and more out of place. I wore my best dress, matching heels, and the best red lipstick I could get my hands on. I looked the part—much better than any of these white-haired compatriots—but the cheapest thing I saw would have paid off all my debt and held me over until my face wrinkled like theirs.

Why did I come here? I thought. I was invited because I was family, but none of this was meant for me. He had left the entire estate and the company to his son, my uncle.

My uncle was the only one to ever work in the family business. That horrible drunk probably has more DUIs and allegations against him than he has IQ points. He was the only one to work with my great-grandfather and while he had been running the company straight into the ground since he became too old to manage it, he was still viewed as the only trusted one. He received everything.

My uncle was the only other family member here, since no one else could ever dream of affording anything in this room. And he was sitting right next to me.

"Hey," he whispered to me, the heavy stench of scotch hanging on his every word. "I'll tell you what. Even though you only live down the street... so it wasn't too hard for you to get here. And since I am such a good uncle... and since I am making so much fucking money on this shit. I'll tell you what. And here it is..."

He stopped, leaned back, and burped into his closed mouth. Blowing the burp forward, he took a sip of his scotch, his ice cubes rattling against his empty glass. He leaned back in to keep whispering. "I'll tell you what. You can get one thing from this auction... on me." he offered as he tossed a green bidding paddle with red numbers on it at me.

What a generous offer, I thought sarcastically. The feeling of “why was I even here?" was inescapable now. This was all a massive mistake.

"Now I'm going to go have a cigarette, and I'll tell you what..." His voice slowed as he stood up, stumbling and swaying next to me. "I'll tell you what. You can have one too if you want."

"No, thank you," I responded.

"Suit yourself," he said as he began to make his way down the aisle, forcing people to pull in their legs to allow him to pass as if he were navigating a crowded cinema.

That balding, beer-bellied buffoon really knew nothing about me. Down the street? I lived over seven hours away and had to book a hotel room just to be here. I had been terrified that I would never again see the home that brought me so many memories as a young girl—sitting by the lake outside, picking strawberries, and spending all the family holidays here. I just had to see it one last time.

And offering me a cigarette? Did he not remember my mother, his sister, being diagnosed with lung cancer from those evil sticks? Maybe he didn't care. Maybe he thought it was just one less person to share the inheritance with. Well, he didn't have to worry about that now; 

I sat there and watched them cycle through more art—pieces that used to decorate the very halls I once wandered. There was one very long hallway where I used to dress up and walk the catwalk imagining I was a runway model. Great-grandfather would always applaud. "Good show, good show!" he would tell me with a large smile, clapping his hands.

I began to tear up again just thinking about it. Then, the next item was brought up onto the stage. It was a tea pot. What was that doing there? I thought, watching the auction spotlight reflect off its silver surface. We used to use that exact pot close to every day for "tea time." It couldn't possibly be worth anything to anyone else.

"King Louis's most famous tea pot," the auctioneer explained to the crowd. "Made of silver, this was the tea pot held at many of his meetings, and one of his very last luxuries before being put to death."

The crowd murmured, exchanging silent looks, 'oohs,' and 'ahs.' Except this piece belonged to me.

"Start the bidding at 3.2 million," the auctioneer announced.

I raised the bidding paddle my uncle had thrown at me.

"3.2 million for the young lady in green," the auctioneer said, pointing directly toward me. A few heads turned to inspect their competition.

Suddenly, my uncle burst back into the room.

That damn fool walked in before anything else could happen. With the ruckus he created, he instantly became the center of attention. Every head in the auction house looked at him as he stumbled down the aisle.

"Hey!" he slurred loudly. "That's my tea pot! Give it to me!" His drunken finger pointed aggressively toward the stage.

The two young men helping move items went to intercept him.

"Do I hear 3.5 million?" the auctioneer pressed on, attempting to regain the attention of the crowd.

"Do you not fucking hear me?!" my uncle shouted at the auctioneer and the attendants.

He took a step forward. The two young men held their hands out to block him from approaching the now fearful-looking auctioneer. "I own fucking everything here! Now give me back my fucking tea pot!" The last few words were almost impossible to decode, but the message was clear.

The room fell dead silent, minus his heavy, drunken huffing and puffing. The two young men looked back at the auctioneer, who gave a small, defeated nod. They let my uncle pass.

I watched as a knot of fear tightened in my stomach. He walked right onto the stage with all eyes on him—billion-dollar business owners, foreign royalty, and some of the most powerful men and women in the world. He grabbed the tea pot and walked right back off the stage. Every single head followed his movement, eyes trained on him as he cut through the room.

My heart ached. I wanted to say something—anything—but I couldn't find the words. Even if I did, he would never understand or listen to someone while he was that boozed up.

"I am going to go make another drink if anyone wants one," he slurred to the crowd, stumbling out of the room and throwing the grand doors open.

The ballroom was left completely silent. The only thing moving were the tears walking down off my cheeks and two young men on stage rushing a new art piece into the spotlight, and the auctioneer cleared his throat to start again. 

I paid no attention. I wiped my eyes and followed the path my uncle had taken, heading out to the nearest bathroom.I closed and locked the decorated bathroom door. Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, I tried to pull myself together. I could hear the faint, muffled sounds of the auction continuing down the hall.

"What was I doing here?" I asked aloud into my tear-covered hands.

A few minutes passed. I cleaned myself up and opened the door, ready to leave this entire nightmare behind. As I walked toward the front entrance, I passed the family room. We all used to play board games here and open Christmas presents. My gaze drifted past the corner where the  tree used to stand and on the coffee table, an old Santa toy sat exactly where it always used to be, looking back at me and forcing a soft chuckle. This would be the last time I ever saw this room—a place that held so many of my favorite memories.

Then I heard it. A deep, rattling snore that could only come from an ogre or a troll in deep hibernation echoed through the space. I looked over. It was my uncle, passed out face-down behind the back of the couch, reeking of stale cigarettes.

One arm dangled over the side of the cushions, while the other was pinned awkwardly beneath him. One leg was hiked up over the armrest at a strange angle, and his cheek was pressed violently against the fabric, squishing his face. It was a thoroughly unflattering sight. The old oaf was completely dead to the world, snoring away.

Then, glimmering softly in the morning rays of the sun, I saw it. Resting on its side right next to his drooped, unconscious hand was the silver tea pot.

My vision focused. My heart raced. My head snapped around to check the hallway. My feet moved on instinct. My body bent down, and my hands wrapped securely around the silver handle.

I held it tight against my chest and looked around one last time. The coast was clear and I made my escape.

Thank you, uncle, I thought with a smirk. You dumb drunk idiot.

Peace & love brought

new wars

deep under the skin away from

a world that spins as

it should

Always something

something to fear

someone to fear

be afraid

do as I say

To be secure

Peace & love brought

new wars

deep under the skin away from

a world that spins as

it should

Always something

something to fear

someone to fear

be afraid

do as I say

To be secure