It may happen today, maybe tomorrow.
Then again, I may not live to see it happen.
The witch’s cackle grows louder each day,
Her potion brewing in all its fury.
The apocalypse, her motive.
An end to all suffering, her excuse.
Fallen as she is, ruthlessness overwhelms her.
Stories are all I’ve heard.
How would it be? I ask myself
To witness the end.
The climax, for which she has been biding time.
Her victorious smirk flashes across the sky
As she goes down with the rest of us
Unscarred, yet doomed.