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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Occult · #1480954
A Poem Of Witchcraft & Woe For October!
                                                                    S A L E M

Winds that whisper
crisp and cold,
rustle the leaves
and chill the bones.
Memories so dark
and so very old
seep from dead soil
desperate to be told.

Of a circle
at night,
of torches
blazing bright.
Of grim faces
etched with merciless delight.

In the center
here beneath
a gnarled and blackened tree
was a fair young woman
named with blessings, Emily.
A child of the Earth
of the Sisterhood
Loving all things Natural
as a Wiccan should.

For crimes against none
in the light of the moon
for the images she drew
and the ancient runes
She was convicted, judged
dragged from her home
to die most unnaturally
in pain and alone.

In this sombre place
on this killing ground
where remains of others
could also be found.
The silent dead
her kith and kin
guilty of what others
called witchery and sin.
off balance
upon an old
wooden chair
The night winds
through her wild crimson hair.

A rope was drawn
about her neck
cruelly tight.
Hands bound crossed
behind her
her skin
once creamy and flush
now haunted white.

they spat at her.
Whore of desire!
She makes the beast with two backs
in Hell's seething pyre!
WITCH she is!
WHORE she be!
Hang her now from the tree!

INNOCENT! she cried,
with tears and ire
the Devil was less than nothing
in her young heart's beating fire.
This is no justice
no justice at all,
all she ever did was listen
to the Divine Goddess' call.

But all of them
every last one of them there
harbored desires, lust
for this girl with red hair.
That was her crime
her only misdeed;
reviling them all
not indulging their needs.

It was the way Salem was
back in those days
when the Church not with Love
held unbridled sway.
Pleading, she begged
calling each man out by name
she had done nothing wicked
she was not to blame!

None there gathered
would listen
or hear.
None there gathered
dared even get near.
They avoided her green eyes
let the flames
dry her tears.

Her tale
was a misery
of sorrow
and woe.
and accused
by this mob
and cast low.

Weeping enough
to make new rivers flow,
the council would have none of it,
they kept telling her so.
Thou art in league with Satan!
In league and in thrall
we will not be beguiled
by your foul witch's call!

Hang her,
burn her,
see her die!
will suffer not
one more
wretched lie!

To the stool
went the Reverend,
with black intent
he strode.
and for Emily
this poor, poor girl
the gravest of ills
this would bode.

he slapped her
marring that soft face.
Again and again he would strike
sparing her no grace.
Not one bit of kindness
Not one thought for reprieve
the ugly mark of his hand
was all he would leave.

Looking up
raising his Bible high
he opened his mouth
shouting loudly
a fevered, Christian cry.
By the will of our Lord, GOD
unclean thing
you must DIE!

And he kicked at her swift
full of venom
and with malice.
Down to Hell
he thought he sent her
to dance
in Satan's palace.

She kicked
she struggled
she twisted
and she swung.
Her neck
was stretched,
by that rope
was she hung.

As if that weren't
enough for them
more cruelties
would they do
was that ugly mob
to kill the poor girl

By the torch
they set to light
the hem
of her plain dress.
The fire took
burning brightly
searing Emily's
innocent flesh.

Flames crackled,
and roared!
Until they knew
part of this Earth
the Wicca Emily
wasn't anymore.

There have we struck!
See it here
be done!
God be our savior,
our shepherd,
Satan's works
every one of them

That was the night
the winds whisper of
in the trees.
The nightmare truth told
when down fall the leaves.
From ashes to dust
Emily's grave is long cold
But the fright never leaves us
no matter how old.

The night we dress for,
the night we act out and dance.
For a trick
For a treat
For the sweetness of chance.
A chance for a kindness
A chance to believe
we will never again bring horror
beneath the moon on Hallow's Eve.

                            For All That Suffered Man's Inhumanity To Man
© Copyright 2008 Onyx: a PURPLE MANIAC! (onyxgemini22 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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