In the quiet hours of twilight,
I yearn for the flicker of spells,
where the air thickens with intention,
and shadows dance to ancient chants.

The allure of a world woven with enchantment,
where herbs hold secrets,
and the moon casts a silver glow,
whispering promises of hidden power.

I crave the feeling of a coven’s embrace,
where laughter and incantations intertwine,
and every glance is steeped in understanding,
a sisterhood forged in the cauldron of dreams.

Yet here I stand, tethered to the mundane,
the thrill of magic tantalizingly close,
an electric pulse beneath my skin,
each heartbeat a reminder of what could be.

The pages of lore call to me,
a siren song from the depths of history,
inviting me to step beyond the veil,
to weave my essence into the tapestry of the night.

But reality looms, a stubborn barrier,
the everyday drags me back,
even as my heart races with desire,
for a world where I can summon the winds.

I close my eyes, feeling the pull,
the weight of a promise just out of reach,
and I know the magic is there,
a breath away, yet forever elusive.

In the space between dreams and waking,
I hold onto the longing,
the flicker of possibility,
for within me, the witch stirs,
craving the enchantment that might never be.
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