On a Witch Hunt

An ambiguously dark path way to the middle of no where. This ominous heightend sense takes over you. You're drawn to go down the road, where you know you won't come back the same. But step by step, the mumbled prayers quicken and project. Until your final one. You stop. Under this tree. You see her through the tears built up on the edge of your eyes. She points, and signals you, and you drop. The single tear rolls down your face, but you feel nothing. All you know is what you see: the black blurry leaves, the dead trunk of the tree, the edge of the grass, and the witches feet. To never lift, even to your own feet ever again.