Waterhouse

Ritual crone in a dying coven

A will was wrought by tithing omen

For what was lost nothing stolen

In hollowed minds oak moss has chosen.

To rasp and wind to descend therein

The forest chose a mortal kin.

Cove of lust, a trove of bone,

From wicked waters—shallows shown.

A image in forlorn, rippled.

Darkness comes, from puddle drifters.

Death unhallowed, brooks abound,

From hence the cosmos shadows found.

An air of echo through water pounds

A lark, a meadow, a garden proud.

A creek and stream intertwine,

A rivers keepsake at bottom lye.

To drown to drown, to hold and dive

Your nearing grave, you'll find the prize.

A sunken ship—a pond so hidden

Lunar shade on liquid vision.

Words are words as repetition,

So I'll end it.. with this sentence.