In a cauldron, depths swirling with unspoken secrets,
A witch finds herself lost in the ritual of midnight.
The slit in her gown daring, her laughter unfiltered,
She folds the abstract concept of desire into the liquid enigma.
Eye of newt, wing of bat—
Additions to the cauldron turn more intriguing.
A suggestion of the forbidden, a hint of mischief,
Enough potency to leave even a phantom unsettled.
The broom, a dormant vector of cosmic escapades,
Sits unused in its shadowed nook.
The question of flight becomes a fractal thought—
Incomparable to the interstellar rendezvous she anticipates this eve.
As candles oscillate between form and void,
The incantation flirts with its own dissolution.
The very fabric of the observed All Hallow’s Eve
Frays into quantum strands of disparate jubilations.
Her lover arrives, synchronised with the disintegration of the final verbal sigil,
Perfectly timed for a tasting of this ineffable concoction.
