The Witch of October

Atop a thin, wooden broom,
Which soared through the sky,
There huddled Bryant Lee,
through the world he would fly,

The sun never beat down upon his hair,
More than the knuckles of his folks,
He huddled beneath a basement,
living off of hair and filthy yolks

All days of the year, Bryant had worked hard
To polishing and honing his broom,
and he waited for the end of the month,
within his filthy and bedrock tomb

the very end of October,
the day Bryant would rise,
his favorite part of the year,
sparking the children’s cries

his little thumbs smoothed over his stave,
and he straddled it , ready to go,
year after year, on this very hour,
he would squat the perch of a dark crow

running back each strand of his hair,
and unlocking his makeup kit,
Bryant applied it to his face,
and began to scream, “It’s lit!”

the basement hatch creaked open,
and he flew past the blue moon,
if the kids had not seen him,
they surely would – soon

the cackles rang across the Earth,
and the children couldn’t believe what they’d seen,
for Bryant, rider in the sky,
was a sickly shade of draconian green

As the sun rose from its deep depths,
and his ride went without a hitch,
it was blatantly obvious,
that Bryant was the wicked witch.

By Shivang Shelat

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