This world of twisted labels and deceit,

He fancies himself an angel, pure and sweet,

While she, by him, is called a witch,

Yet their roles are reversed, a bewitching glitch.

 

He claims to soar with celestial grace,

Wielding magic in a darkened space,

But angels know no gender, nor such tricks,

People call his arrogance, a facade that quickly flicks.

 

On a broomstick he rides, like a wayward sprite,

Casting spells and summoning the night,

Is this the realm of angels, dark and grim,

Or a misguided fantasy, growing dim?

 

She, he named her a witch, with no powers grand,

No flying broomstick nor wings to command,

Yet she bears the weight of false accusations,

In this world of twisted, skewed affiliations.

 

The crowd jeers and spits venomous words,

Questioning his claims and her plight,

But in the silence, she finds her voice,

Crafting verses of wisdom and light.

 

Wise owls whisper guidance in her ear,

To not heed the words that strike with fear,

For she is the wise fool, the poet true,

Crafting verses of light in a world askew.

 

She knows all this is nothing more than interlude

A comical affair being given baseless roots

He so in his hidden agendas, designs a yarn

To judge his friends and foes, from afar