Whisper they would; what harm is there in hushed voices?
Heard in the distance; with a smile towards my face, tightness around my throat.
To my door, each one of them would knock; in need of an ear, to shed a judgment free tear.
A closed mouth; their release and relieve.
Whispers feed whispers; taking wicked twisted form.
Filthy crooked fingers point in fierce accusation; neighbour and friendships turned sour.
Speaking in tongues; evil and lust for persecution, the execution.
Tales twisted unrecognisably; cures contorted to fatal blame.
It’s good to have a scapegoat and I’m one of theirs; purging their evils and guilt with gangland misdirection.
Trials fuelled by bloodlust and power; there was only ever going to be one verdict grown from whispers; “Witch!” “Guilty!” “Sentence her to death!”
Strung up naked, centre stage; a place I never wanted to be.
I only longed for peace, quiet, to be free.
Angry eyes burned back in hate; none of them seeing their burning Witch.
Inward looking desperate to purge their cruelties in my bodies destructive flames.
I am Issobella; their last Witch strangled and burned.
I am Issobella; their Wasteland Witch.
They claim to have learned but they still don’t see; times have changed them little, their Witch is still me.
(c) Natasha Sinclair 2019, All rights reserved.
