Sister,  sister, you’re dead now. 

known as only ashes buried deep in a cold shallow

grave at the top of a lonely hill…

I saw you burn hotter than the sun, tied to a stake

worse than a dog was ever done.

Sister,  your shrieks still fill my ears from

that day, as they continued to pile on the wood to your funeral pyre.

I saw them laugh as the flames rose ever higher and higher.

I could only salt the earth with my tears for I was far too young.

Far too young  to save  a lighted soul such as yours being wronged.

My own darkened that day,

blacker than a shipbuilder’s pitch.

A witch you never were, but now

a witch I have become,

and tonight I hunt.

Hunt for the many ones,

and oh they will surely see a witch

tonight of the like they

have never seen.

 

By Philip Wardlow 2016