The Write Place

To Hecate she turns

The living God she spurns

Trinkets of potion

Practioners of empty motion

Poisonous rot and fetid emotion

Turning from the fount of wisdom

For the mistress of folly

Frog faced hag, 

pockmarked skag,

Two steps removed from Zion’s soil

Labored in thorns and endless toil

Hecate bows down

Heqet stoops

Reaching for her long lost crown

Trampled by troops

The faux magic fails

They fell in follies trails

Ignorant, without excuse

By nature and by Word

Of no use 

Your Idols of stone, idols of steel

Dead gods that cannot hear, cannot save

Corpses worshipped down to the grave

God you have forsaken

Forsaken you must be

From his presence you descended

To Sheol you are upended

Return to the house of Wisdom

The temple of God

The Halls of Eden await