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 would knock, rap and tap; 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 pointed 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 body’s 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. © Natasha Sinclair