image/jpeg | Apr 22, 2025 at 12:28 PM | 1 edition(s)

- the witchmother myth long before kingdoms rose and cathedrals touched the sky, she walked barefoot through the blackened woods, a crown of smoke above her head. they called her a witch, but the earth called her daughter. when they burned her --bones cracking like cursed wood-- the ground did not mourn. it remembered. they say when a woman dreams of fire, she is not dreaming--she is remembering. the witchmother's spirit moves through bloodlines like a hidden ember, quiet in the marrow, waiting. she is the voice in the mirror before a choice, the warmth in the hand that won't yield. the scream that turns into spell. now, when the moon is red and the forest still, some say they see her--half-smoke, half-shadow, walking with bare feet and eyes like coal. not reborn, not revenant. just remembered.