When a witch becomes a pale bride

Muster scarce trails to pursue the final tales
i might appeal once quizzed, tested & feeled
oh, these cuts-cut-open and observed
though barely alive-cautiously preserved
Molested are my cries
dispersed like transparent rime
yet strangely i see trees
which assail with stabbing scenes
Thus maladies & their remedies mix
so violently they create loathsome tricks
labyrinth of angles-so twisted
shape & form the inevitable-
Through the hexen's mind
through the sharpness of her nails
into her grim thoughts he now sails
Lame and sterile pain
becomes now the most desirable pain
washed to a pond of tears
emptied to a valley of the gifted fears
goblets of wisdom dried
when a witch becomes a pale bride
to the raving beauty of a doubt
a garland-old & worn-out
"here lies he who never lyed
whose skill so often hath been tryed
their prophecies shall still survive
and ever keep their name alive"