Mystery Scene

Peppered soup in my cold, gloomy room
I peered out the window to feel the blue moon
Wicked witches hold wands as they swoon
They flew into night in thick wooden brooms
Letched I was, unloving because
Pale, cool hands might rub off my frost
Bent below; their slender white arms
The leanest of fingers were drawing their charms
Popping the groom, etching the stare
Wielding the path to a treacherous lair