3 Witches

There are three witches in the back of my head
Brewing trouble, making trouble, always trouble.
They whisper there, you don't matter to him,
why be such a dumb loyal dog?
He'll eat you alive, and leave no bones for
the collector, they say, and you will have
to be reborn again in our pot, given now
a criminal's heart, a murdresses' spleen,
and you will be a monster of our making.
Then they dance around, their arms wild and high,
laughing and blowing fire out their eyes.
Poor me, poor me under their spell,
uncertain and afraid, curled in a ball,
no defense against their torments,
Save for my righteous conscience,
that would rather I suffer indignity
than do indignity to another.
I've always loved you Socrates,
my unkempt brother through generations.
It does not help that you do not give me your words,
the vaccine against witches' poison and
defenses against their dark arts.
It does not help that you might,
for all I divine, feel nothing for all I feel something.
It does not help that you purr in my ear,
on torpid afternoons, too hot to move,
but leave me in the clutches of witches,
when you go like a lover back to.