A poem about a coven using dark magic to harm others, only to be undone by divine justice, revealing that evil deeds ultimately lead to one’s downfall.
Copyright © Priya Florence Shah
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At the witching hour, they convened,
In the graveyard, spirits gleaned.
With their Mason jars, they chattered,
In a cauldron, shadows lathered.
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Poured jealousy and venomous hate,
Forgery, lies, and ill intent,
Casting a web of illusion great,
A dreadful fate they sought to invent.
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But she walked through the Valley of Death,
With her head held high, and steadfast breath.
Her faith in Divine protection strong,
She moved with courage, all along.
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Their smirks vanished, laughter slathered,
When their fortunes quickly gathered,
And their loved ones, with sad cries,
Started dropping just like flies.
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The Divine let them think they’d won the battle,
Gave them just enough rope to seal their prattle.
Believing their victory, they danced and laughed,
Unaware their doom was tightly strapped.
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They lost the war and scattered like roaches,
When the spotlight of the law’s reproaches,
Shone on them with a brilliant glare,
Exposing their evil deeds beyond repair.
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The fake prophet who hurts minors,
The disease-ridden witch who sickens men,
The rats abandoned the sinking ship,
As Divine Justice completed its trip.
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The moral of this sorry tale,
Is that evil doesn’t pay, nor prevail.
Forbidden magic will bounce right back,
And Divine justice stays on track.
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