Wasteland Witch

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.