Beware the evil glance,
sworn to drive me from my pulpit,
claimed to be possessed by the devil.
Shut my conscience,
guilty verdicts against accused,
witches would endure for centuries.
There copper demons throng the powers of the dark,
Salem Village, Massachusetts.
Her rolling eyes are wild,
like a hot fire,
spread through colonial Massachusetts.
Faith brings blood,
the painful legacy of the salem witch trials,
like beasts upon all fours they crawl.
Hanging a witch—
why marvel witches hang like fruit;
I have given you my soul.
The proof:
Their flesh turns blue and black,
the foam is froth upon their lips.
The noose is up,
witches in their flight,
holy spring of 1692.
I can make you wish,
he slew them both...
he stabbed them both.
YOU ARE READING
𝗣𝗼𝗲𝘁 𝗠𝗲 𝗔 𝗣𝗼𝗲𝗺
Poetrya collection of letters, poems, and short stories from deep within, a little addiction with it too; welcome to the emotions of the awkward teenage time we all once had.
