| Poem |
 
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DEATH WITCH by E.A. PhilipsThe bones were buried for many years,
Shackled, forgotten, no one to care,
Their story unknown, their meaning lost,
Until the sojourner Waylaj came,
Waylaj, who lives beyond the skies,
Waylaj, who heard the bones from afar
Singing a tale of sorrow, and hope,
Hope for a bright new day.
Waylaj's home was a planetless star,
His body plasma, encased in crystal,
Royal One, Sun King, many names
Throughout the ages and ages he bore,
Throughout the ages, he strove to remand
The gift of life to those once living,
To right all wrongs, to heal all hurts,
And set all dead hopes free.
The bones were held in a witch's house,
Down cellar, where bones are wont to lie.
Waylaj arrived, unannounced, unseen,
No other soul present to hear the bones wail
As slowly, slowly, he dug them up,
Digging through layers on layers of dreams,
Undoing the shackles from hands and feet,
Lifting the bones from their grave.
Now for the magic, one, two, three.
One, for the animals, lower than us:
The bones stood up, and took a step.
Two, for mankind, ourselves, our kin:
The bones stumbled forth a second step.
Three, for what Earth will never become:
The bones ran up the steps to find
The witch who murdered them.
But the witch was gone. She left early
To find some other universe to haunt.
The bones, disappointed, lurched through the door,
To search the world over for their lost rest.
Waylaj, his business finished, successful,
Ported back home to his star in the sky.
And you, and I? We'll have to pretend
That death is still here, and still our best friend.
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