The Village Folk
were yearning yearning.
Dissenters, Accusers churning churning
the tides of their Hatreds burning burning
-The Witch.

She sat upright
bound in Ropes of Spite
to a trunk in fright in fright.
Flames flashing flashing flickering, flaling
Embers, ashes from the timbers harmfully haling
Chopping
Chisling
Sizzling.
Moving moving rose and rose
up through the trunk up to her nose.
Blazing Blackening
Rupturing Crackling
her skin
Perjing her of Evils from within.
She spoke
but gasped and choked of
Smokes that broke her. . .
completely