A witch and doll in streets littered in ash.
The sun was setting, both were far from home.
The moon was spilling something from its gash,
a signal they should flee the twilight's gloam.
Evacuation led most people out.
Apartments here were rarely occupied.
The witch, her name was Envy, leapt and crouched,
and made her way into a window-side.
If families inhabited this place
the two would be a hornet in a nest.
A witch was hard to kill, in any case.
Eventually she came across some steps.
The stairs led to a basement down below.
While moldy, for a witch, that was just fine.
Abandoned spaces let the two lay low.
But Sherryu, Envy's doll, let out a cry.
"I know that dolls are meant to be kept dry,
but Sherryu, it's the best that we can do.
And besides, we have magic on our side.
The adage about spiders will hold true."
She spoke in quickened fashion to prevent
the protest she expected from her doll.
Her Sherryu wouldn't stop her swift descent
if that meant interrupting her at all.
"There's no one who'd suspect we're hidden here.
I'll have a cozy spot set up to eat.
We'll conjure what you'd like and I'll premiere
new lullabies until we fall asleep."
As Envy manifested, out of trash,
a table full of teacups set and neat,
the doll who once thought Envy was too rash
was softening its shell enough to speak.
"I want to be of use to you, my miss,
that's why, before we came, I made a yelp.
But when my warning cries end up dismissed
it makes me worry I can't be of help."
As Envy heard these words, she took the doll
and held it tight to fill her hole of guilt.
She never meant to hurt Sherryu at all,
but recognized the mistakes she had built.
"Imagination never could supply
nor words, nor actions made within my life,
the value that you hold within my eyes.
I never want to give you inner strife"
They chose to stay in shelter for the night.
With sleep, the evening's dark would hurry by.
As promised, Envy eased her Sherryu's fright
with iambs in the form of lullaby.
The story that it told was something shared
between mothbitten creatures and their things
If nothing in this world would be repaired,
then poems would be something they could sing.
A history was hidden, not so well,
in fragments that the rhythms would recite.
A tale about the ways a country fell,
from astronauts who meant to beckon light.
In severing the sky, they spared the world,
but didn't know the hemorrhage it would bring.
Once something in their psyche had unfurled,
to compensate, the moon would start to wring.
The twisting lunar body bled so much
that everything beneath it got all wet.
And yet when spoken soft in witch's clutch,
the song would lead the doll to sleep in bed.