Her triumph was an angry towering presence,
invading every element,
Her patience had finally bore
diseased and pestilent fruit.
All those long, agonizingly slow centuries,
dwelling in the dirt that was humanity.
Laughing up her sleeve as the guardians kept careful watch.
She could sense their animosity
and their puzzlement as she minced about in human form tending a garden,
while her unrelenting hatred of this defiled world
and all things in it
like a flame she carefully tended with sticks
sharpened to killing points and dipped in poison.
Riding in the ravens wake she laughed,
causing trees and plants to shrivel beneath her.
Sending her witches vision out before her
searching for that tourmaline shine,
listening for its song that no enchantments could disguise,
knowing well the place it moved toward,
and there she would take her revenge
and rip the sky apart.
And this time,
there would be no magic deep enough to ever repair it…