Cast her as the big bad witch
And all you’ll surely see
Is cloak of black with pointy hat
With broomstick made from tree

You will think you’ll hear a cackle
Swear blind she owns a cat
That crosses in front of your path
To catch the nearest rat

And you’ll be certain that she has
A fiery cauldron too
Where tail of mouse and rat complete
All mix into the stew

Yet ‘neath perception’s bias
You’ll fail to see the rest
The truth or altitude view that so
Belies your thoughts at best

For there’s no cloak, no pointy hat
No broomstick or fire pit
No cackle, though perhaps a cat
But that is about it

As beneath these dark and blackened clothes
She wears as a disguise
Another her is maybe masked
To cover up her size

Or hide away from judgement and
The pointing finger that
Condemns…