Goat Witch's blog: "Chronicles of a Goat Witch"

Hope was a drifting leaf, too light to fall, too crisp to float forever. Thick brittle veins coursed through broken edges. Browned from the sun, no longer alive. But not yet dead. It was up to the wind, if the leaf died, or soared.

Here she stands, 10 feet tall on her knees. She is impervious, she is bold like merlot on white carpet. Not easily bleached out or faded. No, not her. She is bold, intelligent, risque. She knows all too well the actions of others, jaded by societies' concepts of liberation-the acts of drinking and drugging rather than freeing one's mind. Jaded, however, she is not. She has loved the greatest love of her life, and like a greasy sausage falling from the countertop, it's dirty and thrown away. She still wants it, hungry for Him. But it is gone. She cries herself to sleep, staring at a popcorn ceiling, making out His face in the dark. At 3 in the morning. At sunrise. She reaches out for Him, fingers touching the empty space. The Witch casts out the Tarot. Decks of divination. She will read what her Lord has in store for her. Ave Satanas!