Every hopeful comes to her lair offering bits of hair and scraps of truth they’ve been holding on to. And she pops them in her cauldron enjoying the earnest in their eyes as she dispels the lies that have inspired their plight. Poor passionate subjects that she alleviates with her book of rhymes and a spoon under the light of the moon. She rectifies the wrongs of the heart and calls light out of dark smiling as each departs, satisfied, successful, rewarded for their wanting. But wanting she remains till she no longer remembers what wanting means, too old, too cold, too far beyond wanting.