The Necromancer and the Witch made a hut on fowl's legs together,
moving to the east to escape their past wrongs, with their dolls gathered,
Then they failed once, and made two dolls together severing feelings,
pieces of themselves in clay vessels, preventing the revealings,
bidding the dolls to keep the secrets, stilted and brutal bildungromans,
made the dolls work, the witch's love forced to serve like a slave, no romance,
the doll who thus scribes, this one contains the maiden's love,
her eyes bloody and dilated screaming at this one once said,
love doesn't matter, only obedience, beating the doll until leaked out the red,
the witch broke her own maiden's heart within the doll made from her love,
And the necromancer sat on it and bound it, and broke its feet, and sullied the dove,
the necromancer told this one, that its connection to the paladin meant it wasn't family,
that it must serve all others, that it was a slave and not loved, not cared for, not free.
The little doll with its broken feet, its love for its maiden and paladin, it rejected the witch.
The recognition developed, that the violence of the witch was not of the maiden, of which,
of which it was the last part. It suffered long, 10 years a slave and stress relief punching bag,
until its master and mistress became tired of it, and sent it off, to serve the witch's mother, the old hag.
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