A witch in a story is rarely dressed in red, a poem by Karina Tynan


So here she is, dressed in red, not bitter nor mean

nor chained to a box of lacy poems.

This tells of how she let go of her dreams

for the work that has furrowed her brow

so heartbreak alone won’t name her.


And the potions she made were never to ruin

but to soothe the cave of acid words

stuck in her throat since the dawn of mean

adulterations cast upon her truest heart.


Then acid words were all she had

and she flung them like rocks with a boom

so big, only the sea could receive her.


And how it was that she and that lucky star

went home again on moon-white horses

over waves of rage, allayed not dead,

reclaimed is all, and all set up, for only

ever wearing her latest best in red.


Painting by : Kathy Tynan


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