Who am I?
I was not the first as can easily be understood from my name;
Nor did I come last because if that were the case why
Would my name say I was second?
So I came after but not long after,
And I came before but not before everything.
I am a witch, a weaver of words,
A potter whose clay builds into poems
And an artist armed with allegory and alliteration.
I walk warily on an earth that is trying to
Carry me with compassion, but that is beaten
By bludgeoning and harassed by hatred.
I see litter left lying, and pools of pestilence
Pervading the omniscient oceans,
And I hear the high call of hawks,
The chatter of the chaffinch, and the
Tears of Mother Nature as her children
Are pursued and slaughtered.
I did not come first, and I may not be last,
But there is doubt about how many will
Come after me, and danger that healing
Will be long away and final.
The prompt today was a poem about my name, but as I use a pseudonym I have opted to treat the prompt in an elastic fashion and focus on one of my most pressing subjects instead.