A wand of rigid Yew,
Her bag potion filled,
She entered again,
The twisted battlefield.
Of three nights and three days,
Healing those she could,
A young witch walked beat,
Across the lonely wood.
Woods that had held magic,
And magical beasts,
Now hosted only,
Fields of carrion feasts.
In the shadow filled night,
She heard a faint cry,
"O lord above, please
Answer my prayers to die."
She knelt before a boy,
So young, green, and fair.
Down his throat she tipped,
Blue liquid rich and rare.
But no potions save him.
The rattle of death,
Sounds like a canon,
Leaving the witch bereft.
Rank filth and excrement.
Wet ditches of muck.
Blood covered bodies.
All decaying like smut.
Through sirens and gunshot,
Another cries out.
She sighs aloud, turns,
And walks towards the shout.
The touch of Thanatos,
And winter weather,
The ground half frozen,
Keeps the dead together.
She looks at the bodies,
Depleted of breath.
She has lost control,
Given in to cold death.
"O Lord, I pray preserve,
Me. Please let me live."
But she turns away,
She has no more to give.