I think of those who sat here before me,
Drinking overpriced tea in an overpriced seat;
Trying not to feel miffed at £2.20 for a teabag and hot water,
But this frivolous life is one that is growing on me,
The art of not caring becomes all too natural
As I sit by the door and think about leaving
But not leaving.
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The Modern Heretic

Some days I think I might have been a witch.
I have the temperament for one – brooding, meticulous,
able to whip up a potion as easily as winking
in the rusted cauldron that hangs over my firepit,
chattering in the background like an old housewife.
They’d come to my cottage (of course it would be a cottage)
and track mud all over my freshly scrubbed floors
and ask me to fix any number of ills.

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