Another witch poem, this time from the younger sister's perspective. Though it is a companion piece, you'll notice that this one employs assonance, while the older sister's doesn't.
My First Time Flying
The wind is blowing way too much.
This death-trap that you call a broom
is bucking like a wild horse.
If I fall off, I’m blaming you.
I hold you tight around the waist
and look below to see my doom.
Cat-black pavement fills my sight,
like an unlucky, asphalt tomb.
Now nauseated, I look up,
and I’m blinded as I do.
The setting sun dies bright and bold,
a blazing beacon in the gloom.
I gasp, astounded by this sight,
and wonder how I never knew
how breathtaking it is to fly
above the clouds, below the moon.
Post a Comment