Hecate.

A small world makes
These things inevitable
Car-crash conversations are a part of
My life, now more than ever
Where the highway diverged
I signaled
Not caring if you did
And here the other roads come back to the fray
As I expected and feared that they would
One day
Birnham wood marches along the great highway
Prophetic doom
That I proclaimed myself, in my own mind
I wept for the day when the past was to return
Witches, hags, that all are me
Have I put too much stake in prophecy?
The forest brings joy, apparently

I'm expecting to be murdered outright
Before the end of this bloody night

By none other than the child I used to be