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A velvet smooth muskrat
her peltry in woods abandon safe harbor
as though a fir tree can alight her gain

yet beneath her surface
that cast doubt in a loom
where her shape desire it
but a charlatan begun ahem

if Tom sheath his wrench
and tries to loosen her again
in Bensalem tonight.
Andrew Maitland Aug 2016
On Proctor’s ledge I made my bed
Following the ****** scores
Through grey fog, thick as cold death.
Screaming gallows want my head...
To dance across their blood stained floors.
This opaque sky is my one true friend  
Oh the exquisite view it does afford!
Peering down those rotten trap doors.

Puritan villagers spew hate
Lighting my ***** feet
As this frayed rope keeps me safe.
Smooth grey rocks hidden away...
By broken sticks and amber leaves.
I left them on the ground where they lay
Just to preserve this caliginous scene!
Eighteen others shall soon agree.
Tryst Apr 2016
In pressing times truth oft' lies so oppressed
And falsehoods rouse to speak in joyed debate
That burdens brought to bear upon the breast
Might anchor nought but will of one testate

What courage leant upon a graven guest
Not thrift of fear in bearing of his fate
But silent as all untruths so expressed,
Except to cry with cursed tongue, "More weight!"
Giles Corey was executed via "Pressing" during the Salem Witch Trials on September 19th 1692 at the age of 81.  He refused to enter any plea against the charges of witchcraft, as was his legal right.
Entering a plea meant he could be tried in court and if found guilty, all of his estate would be forfeit to the crown.
By not entering a plea his assets could be passed to his children.  To prevent people from using this legal loophole, the law allowed a person to be "Pressed".  This involved the person being stripped, having a large plank placed upon their chest, and then large rocks piled on top of the plank to slowly crush the chest, until a plea is entered or until death occurs.  Giles endured his torture for two days before succumbing, only ever crying out "More weight!" when asked for his plea.
Parker Dec 2015
I stand before you
accused by some fool.
You call me a witch,
but I say you are foolish to agree.
I but a simple girl
I mean harm to no one.
You demand I confess to my sins of witchcraft
I'm firm when I look you the eye and tell you,
“ I cannot”.
I go three days and three nights
with only water and some stale bread
in the damp dark of the jail.
I almost fear my hunger has made me mad
when I see your face appear at my cell.
Though am weak,
I rise to greet your scornful face.
Again, you demand I confess.
You wish to make an example of me.
Yet again I look  you in the eye and reply;
“ I  cannot."
You storm out in anger raving about how I shall hang,
but I will not be tried for something I did not do.
I will not ruin my name for the games of the fool.
I stand at the gallows and you demand one last time my confession
A single tear rolls down my face as I look to the crowd gathered to see my end.
Standing tall, I whisper
“I cannot.”
s.s.
AJ Aug 2015
I’m a witch when in the fire:
the taste, just like acid
dropping down the hole.

I’m a witch when I get out of here,
so devastated was the
dilapidated Ferris wheel.

I’m a witch when my mother comes
and succors me along,
but she don’t like
what I’ve been doing
at the witching hour--
only time I got to raise my flag.

I’m a witch when they come in
to make a martyr out of
flesh and bone. I live for the day
the people gather round’
and weep for the child of
ignorance and recreational hate.

I’m a witch when the riot
raise their fire. I’m unholy
so the temple must go down.

One, three, five, six,
give me, give me all of it.
I can take a lot, you see,
my will is unrelenting.
I can feel the fire
licking up my legs until they are charred,
black as my soul is believed to be.
Screams of the innocent echo in my ears.
This was meant to be my funeral pyre.

I **** myself awake
drenched in sweat, with a shriek of pain
catching like a lump in my throat.
Sheets bunched up against me like kindling
gathered to be lit beneath the stake.

I glance around the room
still feeling the eyes of my accusers
bearing into me, hatred blazing the
path of their need for destruction.
“WITCH!”
Many fates sealed with a single word.

Except I am still alive,
the blood of the crimeless flowing through my veins.
Those flames that condemn
spared no one but me, resurrected from the embers.
The Sole Witch of Salem, survived.
Tryst May 2014
Her wide-brim hat was pointed, and worn with ne'er a tilt
Her midnight robe was flowing, and wove from satin silk
Her Besom broom was hazel-hilted, twigged with fresh cut birch
As she flew o'er the hill, until she spied a rocky perch

The hill was trapped in moons light, caught in its silken nets
And grizzled trees were swaying casting eerie silhouettes
A howling wind came moaning, as it wailed a haunting sound
When her swishing broom came whooshing, as she swept o'er the ground

She alighted on the hill top, landing dainty on her toes
And took a tattered grimoire which she held up to her nose
She raised a magic talisman and cast an ancient spell
Then she waited through the gloaming, till midnight chimed its bell

The hill stood gravely silent, as the wind restrained its breath
The grass and flowers wilted and released their scent of death
The shadows neath the trees became alive and took on shape
And ghostly figures rose, as Hallows Eve called them awake

The sounds of horse drawn carriages, came trundling up the hill
Whilst babbling jeering voices exorcised the silent still
A sudden gust of wind called out the names of those condemned
Each manacled and chained up, as they rode to meet their end

As time echoed its memories, she watched the scene unfold
The victims forced unwillingly, to climb upon the scaffold
Some offered up the Lord’s Prayer, and ne'er a word was stumbled
They took a final breath of life, and into hell they tumbled

Their bodies swung ungainly, as they swayed a ghastly dance
With lifeless spectral faces locked into a stone-like trance
Their deathly shrouds were pale, reflected in moons silken sheen
And she watched as they cavorted, ne'er attempt to intervene

They slunk back into shadows, at the fading of the night
The hill reprieved from darkness by the early morning light
The ritual was completed, as she whispered them goodbye
And she climbed onto her hazel broom and kicked into the sky

On Gallows Hill neath stars and moon they hung
And ne'er a one had done the world a wrong

— The End —