The clamor of conversation in a
highly crowded room
Puts my spirit in a fetal pose and
sinks me in a tomb.

A tomb carved out of flesh and bone,
one created from the womb.

My discomfort comes not from their
words nor from the rising volume.
It comes from what they think of me;
I hear it without trying.

These words may never leave their lips,
but yet I hear their crying.
They don’t know whether to love me,
or kill me where I stand.

But they know they take their chances
with the strength that’s in my hand.
And so I stand and stare at them
and force them not to move…
Until their rocky pointed thoughts
are worn down nice and smooth.

And when I have control
of all their thoughts and worries,
I bury them and fro it grows
a tree of poison berries.

So when you go to gather them
for all your witches’ brew,
Take heed because the drink you give
may well be part of you.