The Witching Hour Poem by liz berg naude

She sits
still
silent
her mind is clear
not the movement of a hair.
her face in stone is etched but sweet
serene
deep within she finds the power
that comes along with midnight hour
and to his chamber her soul does creep
softly
gently
as he lies in slumber
and with her finger
she does trace the outline
of the beloved face
he stirs a little
then a moan
as her soul finds his
unbeknown
his body wakens as mind
still sleeps
and with her soul she does quench his fire
and once his fever has ebbed
she slips away
back to herself
and now upon her face
a smile.