It is I, girl of infinite power
Even the gods will cower before me
I thrive in the good light’s darkest hour
Because I am the one that is of three
In the morning I am but a small girl
All my smiles and my laughter are warm.
By midday my brow begins to furrow
And the girl is replaced by mature form
At night my age seems inescapable
Like my bones would break at the softest touch
But my magic has become palpable
The electric air is nearly too much
Yet as a being unmatched in her skills
I am alone, no one to warm my chills
Just a quick sonnet today. Hopefully it was clear that this is a narrative by Hecate, but if not, I have spoiled it for you. Let me know what you think of it!