Branded a Witch, 1692

They ripped me from my sleep.

Black robes and angry torches

invaded my home, forgoing a trial.

A man with callused hands clenched my wrist,

led me into the marsh, his faithful flock in tow.

The flash of a blade,

then, forced to my knees.

Caged in by raging flesh,

the stones were merciless.

Abandoned for the bog to devour;

will you find me here among the muck?

This bleak and morbid body holds up no longer

to brutality and shame.

Hypocrisy has maimed my truth,

taken a fine toothed rake across my mind,

bleeding membrane tissue,

seeping ugly thoughts

that wrench in silenced throat.

As skewered tongue swells in coppery mouth,

I fear my breath is running out.

Carry me, my friend.

Your muscles strain to hold me tight

Against your heaving frantic ribs.

My torpid feet drag trenches through stifled mud.

Ragdoll head lays limp aside left breast,

your desperate drum beats echo

through a hollowed burden,

a tattered canvas,

paint stripped with sharpened malice.

Carry me, my friend.

Trudge us through this ill infested scene,

past these twisted leering limbs

that grab at us from rooted torsos,

past the ebony mass, pain-staked and splayed,

a feline familiar, guilty of existing.

As I am guilty of existing.

Carry me, my friend.

Bring us to a place where natures breath comes easily,

exhaling cadence from earthy womb

to spread across her bosom, an aria.

These drooping arms hang like nooses

lashed to mourning branches

bowing from the weight of death.

Bury me, my friend.

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