A night with men in different dress,
the room would fill with all of this,
hold your breath and know your age,
I was old enough to rage.
Is this Wiccan or a Craft?
No female could do all that.
Was a private show, I sat,
in the middle of the vat.
An eerie tempo drove us through,
to the other side with you.
Silence filled the empty air,
could this be a real fair?
Close your eyes, I say not!
You would have be a lot,
fear may grab you but you bought,
a ticket to hold your very spot.
As the words began to speak,
deafening to the extraordinarily weak.
Culled they are by things you see,
amazingly they guarded me.
Scared straight through,
it was my age,
Three or Four, the Gift of Sage.
Meaning that I can be Wise,
profoundly different and in disguise.
All that whispered in that room,
whizzing in and out so soon.
Potions, lanterns not their style,
this was real and very wild.
Men of Seers,
Men in Robes,
Men I know,
Men I'd go.
Back to the place that scared me so.
To tell the tale of family's woe.
They have stolen from below,
casting spells by selling shows,
to the Church that I did know.
Narcissistic malignancy,
still becomes what I see.
I am older, they persist!
What they yearn is energy,
coming from the Soulless me.
Looking for the evidence,
of the places I have been.
Are your eyes wide open, shut?
Do you know of these Men?
Be careful Sir for they are thieves,
of Wills and Trust Funds,
please believe,
because they come from the Seventies.
I am over but just begun,
telling tales of what they've done.
Fear inhabits me so deep,
the pain is my agony.
Magic Circles whirl for me,
upon the floors of dignity.
Cast out not men but women who see,
demons, devils and don't warn thee.
For they'll speak in foreign tongues,
casting spirits and acting dumb.
Karen A. Placek
4/30/2011
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