A soft, muted and mournful snow fell placidly upon the carved headstones and iron-gated crypts of the Burying Ground at Westminster Church, where the Countess Cynthia Ann and I had come to pay our solemn respects at the tomb of Mr. Edgar Allen Poe. The anniversary of the publication of “Ulalume” was approaching, and the Countess and I felt moved to take the occasion to sojourn to his resting place and offer our admirations and reverent remembrances of our dear friend Eddy, whose preponderance still reverberated through our hearts and minds with a resounding echo.
It was nearly half past ten on a bleak December morning by the time we had arrived in Baltimore by train, and made our way to the stately, brick-walled cemetery on West Fayette Street. Rolling pockets of mist and fog arising from the harbor slowly drifted through the deserted streets as we approached Old Westminster Hall. Stepping through the ornate, wrought iron arch at the entrance to the churchyard, we were engulfed with an overwhelming and bittersweet melancholy, where the profound despair of loss scintillates with a wistful, even intoxicating sense of nostalgia.
As we meandered slowly down the western pathway I ran my fingers over a few of the cold stone slabs and lent my appreciation to the names and dates which had been carefully and lovingly carved into their silent, dreary faces. Patriots, generals, benefactors, and families of high esteem were all interred here, the beloved children of Baltimore who had, in days of yore, gifted strategic victory or humanistic enlightenment to their community and the nation writ large. It was no mistake then, that upon turning left around the rear of the church, we were greeted by the most profoundly inspired monument of them all - that of Poe himself, flanked by the headstones of Virginia and Maria Clemm.
Although my breathing became nearly seized at the sight of Poe’s marble memorial, I rendered a delicate and heartfelt “Hello again Edgar” and in a low hushed voice, the Countess offered “We’ve missed you, old friend”. There we stood, at length as we marvelled at the passage of time, and the events that had unfolded in the years since Poe’s death. We mused with a friendly humor at whether the dastardly events of late would have spurned him towards a deeper madness, a more isolated melancholy, or more likely, both.
After we had fully satisfied our hearts with reminiscences of Poe’s legacy and the personal anecdotes with which we were entwined, we proceeded to accomplish that which was the purpose of our visitation. From the inside pocket of my black overcoat, I produced a bottle of Martell XO cognac and uncorked it. Raising the bottle up against the light wisps of falling snow, I said “We still haven’t forgotten you”. The Countess and I each took several swills from the bottle as we passed it back and forth, enjoying the warmth it provoked in the face and hands.
As a mild tipsiness enveloped her, the Countess let go of my arm and sauntered to a nearby mausoleum, where she reclined in the recess under an arched entryway and out of the falling snow. She quickly became absorbed in reading a copy of The Divine Comedy, which she had brought for entertainment during our travels. Her interests had recently been engulfed in the tales of deathly sojourns and extracorporeal experiences of grief and sorrow. This obsession was made all the more prescient on this day, with our commemoration of Ulalume. She was a voracious reader, a passionate devotee and a gifted practitioner of necromancy, divination and mediumship, and I was enamored by the depths of her dark passions.
The cognac was loosening my inhibitions as well, and I felt a strong surge of emotion welling up inside. As tears streamed down my cheeks, I blabbered out “You lucky ******* The fever called living is conquered at last! And these dear friends are left to suffer the malady in your absence”. After a few moments of indulging my sorrow to outpour unabated, I composed myself and wiped away the tears that had temporarily blurred my vision. I tilted my head upwards to feel the snowflakes fall gently on my face, and the cold winter air caress my skin.
It was here that I happened to glance over to the Countess, where she reposed at the alcove of the crypt. Her back was against the leftward column and her knees were bent, with both feet on the opposite column, off the ground, with the book in her lap. I traced the line of her form, from her thick-soled, tall black boots and the gartered thigh high fishnet stockings that rose high onto her long slender legs. To my extreme delight, I noticed that she wore nothing under the highwaisted, ruffled black mini skirt she wore, and the ruby fullness of her lips showed clearly that she was intensely aroused and in need of gratification.
“My love”, I said with a mischievous grin, as I extended my hand to her, helping her to her feet and guiding her to climb atop an elevated burial slab which was situated nearby. She extended her lace covered arms behind her, planted her hands down into the snow and arched her back to the limits of her satin corset bustier. I slowly guided her lingerie clad, porcelain legs open to reveal her world of pleasure as my mouth reflexively began to salivate.
A heavy blanket of lapping fog rolled through the cemetery as snowflakes delicately licked the silent headstones. Outside the brick wall that encircled the graveyard and in the empty street beyond, the Countesses’ rhythmic moaning crescendoed into an ecstatic ****** of carnal release.
Nov 18, 2025
Nov 18, 2025 at 8:20 PM UTC
My rended heart, through anguish shatters fore,
A stone, that sullen weighted spirits hold,
The scattered sands adrift on sorrow’s shore,
Where grieving angel’s mournful bells have tolled.
Uncaring winds have rendered lifeless now,
Whose tenderness imbued thy loving years,
Disjoined of radiance, the broken bough,
Conveyed to rest on waves of weeping tears.
Entombed, abiding silent kirkyard drear,
Whose eyes no longer shine with living flame,
Or consecrate my desperate ears to hear,
Whose voice, now muted memories reclaim.
Where cherished bonds of mortal presence fell,
In silent mourning, solemn sorrows dwell.
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 2:02 PM UTC
With a near-reflexive, but altogether pleasurable quiver of ****** relaxation, I sank deeper into the soft, luxurious pillows of the ornately carved, four-post ebony wooden bed, in response to a particularly loud and reverberating crash of thunder. I have always felt an innate sense of comfort and tranquility, in both mind and body, in the midst of thunderstorms, and tonight, the perfect alignment of carnal passions, intense sensuality, and the cacophony of the tempest outside, rendered both myself, and the Countess Cynthia Ann, into a trancelike and intensely relaxed sense of contentment and satisfaction.
I reclined there, amongst the tufted pillows and sateen, ox blood colored sheets, in a heavy and hypnotic sense of dreamlike tranquility, where it seemed that at any moment, my soul could leap straightaway, out from my pacified body, and up and into the storm’s raging tumult. With each passing moment, I found it ever more difficult to discern which sounds and sensations were true, and which were the phantasmic creations of a mind that was sinking ever deeper into an entrancing sleep. This wonderful, indulgent feeling - the intermixing of true manifestations and sensory delights within my present situation, that is, within the world of the senses, and the fleeting, ephemeral and illusory realm of the soporific mind.
The penthouse suite that we occupied was situated on the fourth floor of 13 Waterloo Place, facing south towards Old Calton Cemetery in Edinburgh. The staff of the lodging had met our expectations most considerably in the few days for which we occupied the apartment, and the Countess and I were delighted with the experience we shared here, while on official business at the Transylvanian Embassy at Regent Terrace. Thankfully however, our stately duties had been successfully fulfilled well before the anticipated terminus, and the remainder of our occupancy had been spent engaged in wandering the foggy streets and winding, misty alleys of Holyrood and Old Town Edinburgh by day, and various academic and artistic endeavors, and all manner of transgressive erotica by night.
The pursuits of this afternoon and evening were particularly well suited to our insatiable thirst for refined, humanistic interests, as we attended an exposition of “Horrible Imaginings” by John Hamilton Mortimer, centered around his “Death on a Pale Horse” and accompanying works, at the National Galleries of Scotland. Paintings, sculpture and artwork of metal, stone and clay are of particular interest to the Countess, and are generally well suited to ease the anxious nerves she tends to develop during extended periods of travel. The other unfailing remedy to ameliorate her fretful moods is to provide a series of intense and prolonged ****** *******
It was towards these ends that I engaged with the Countess this evening shortly before sunset. She had received, with great surprise and delight, a delivery of fine, french lingerie and instructions to be adorned in such, in anticipation of my return from a series of brief transactions with our contracted exporter in the vicinity. The contents of her parcel included a pair of red thigh high stockings which featured a pattern of rosette lace and a criss-crossed design of black threaded ribbon up the near-entirety of the leg, where around the mid-thigh, a thick trim of Alençon lace encircled the top. There was also a matching set of black and red lace ******* and brassiere, along with a sheer, black, mid-length robe with a silken band that could tie around the waist. The Countess is possessed with a most exquisite and radiantly dark feminine beauty, and I would be woefully remiss in my adoration of her, were I not to provide the most elegant and seductive apparel to compliment her desirability.
Indeed, upon returning from my excursion, she had donned her new attire and was eagerly anticipating what exhilarating pleasures would be released upon her, and in that role of directing the symphony of amoromasochistic gratification, I was more than happy to oblige. To accompany our extended travel itinerary, I had assembled a variety of accoutrements which the Countess would be particularly pleased to utilize - restraints, floggers, blindfolds, plugs and gags, most of which were employed during the course of this extended evening. I must admit that I derive a limitless exultation in my efforts to please the Countess and her insatiable libido, and in conjuring up ever more intensifying ******** convulsions of both mind and body.
And here, with her head resting on my lap, and consumed by an intense and heavy contentedness, was my beautiful bride, basking in rapturous relaxation and exhaustive quietude. She laid on her left side, tightly up against me, with her right arm extended out and across my legs, and her hair splayed delicately over the dark red, silken cushions that cradled her upper body. Her right leg, long and sumptuous, was exposed, out from the comforter below, and by the soft flickering of candlelight that faintly illuminated the room, I gazed upon her, tracing every subtle line of her stocking and lace that was visible to me.
My mind was singularly at ease and I made no attempts at breaking the intoxicating spell of the moment. As the storm raged overhead, I gently caressed her face and her hair, softly stroking with a touch that conveyed my tenderness and adoration. The fingerless, black meshnet sleeves upon my arms, and the sheer tunic I wore provided a suitable and sensuous protection from the cool dampness of the night. In regular intervals, and with ferocious, resounding thunderclaps, bolts of lightning illuminated both the interior of the apartment and the landscape below. I gazed out onto the cemetery across the street where each cross, headstone and statuary blazed forth in electric illumination with every brilliant, fiery flash, and cast their long shadows across the hazy green. And here, as my body, mind and spirit were being completely subsumed into this sensuous and stormy night, I surmised that if life and love were truly everlasting, that I would resolve to remain in this very moment for eternity.
Oct 14, 2025
Oct 14, 2025 at 1:13 PM UTC
The terminal, scintillating amber-golden rays of the western setting sun and their long, heavy, sullen shadows elongated across the soft undulating fields below the imposing, snow-capped southern Carpathian mountains, as our coach meandered along the punctated, uneven path. And in the northeasterly sky, rising with a steady but intoxicated indifference, the scarleted shine of the full blood moon signaled the impending ascendance of twilight and a comforting decrescendo from the exuberance of the day’s revelries.
The day’s festivities had been consumed with the most spectacular and ostentatious indulgences within the citadel at Poenari Castle, where the Voivode of Wallachia, Vlad Tepes himself orchestrated the various features of the bacchanalia. The nature of the celebration was two-fold. The primary focus of adulation was in regards to the upcoming sabbat of Samhain, and the commencement of a three week period of celebratory events to honor the thinning of the veil between the worlds of the living, and that of the dead. The secondary aspect of the merrymaking was much more personally gratifying - a celebration of the recent bestowal of myself and the lady Cynthia Ann with the entitlement of Count and Countess, upon the acquisition of a southward facing hillside parcel of land near Praid, in Hargita County, Transylvania. On this occasion, Tepes demonstrated a particularly affable disposition, having recently expelled the Ottomans from Wallachia, and he was enthusiastically supportive of our acquisition, and of adopting this mysterious and bewitching land as our own. And we were certainly eager to ingratiate ourselves to him, with great hopes of avoiding the same fate as the thousands of enemy soldiers, whose bodies, at the base of the mountain, were impaled onto wooden stakes, in horrifying, grotesque and ungodly configurations, and left to rot and putrify under the harsh elements of the Carpathians.
As we traversed the sublime countryside, the monotone clopping rhythm of the horses pulling from the front lent a hypnotising dissonance to our endeavor, where inside the coach, I sat in contented silence, pondering the myriad events which had recently transpired. My physical body was exhausted from the uproariousness of the day, but my mind was still racing with excitement, reeling from the myriad conversations and exclamatory interactions at the soiree, and of contemplating the exhilarating possibilities which were presenting themselves to the Countess and I in our newfound life and land. With this thrilling cacophony of thoughts and visions reverberating through my mind, I was again, as always, compelled into the more lustful preoccupation upon the beautiful creature I beheld before me.
The Countess Cynthia Ann was by far more taken by the day’s jubilation and was thoroughly consumed by a deep-set tiredness. She rested peacefully, with her body half reclined to her left side in the rear seat of the coach, her head cradled within the folds of the crimson pillowed, velveted lining of the carriage walls. I gazed upon her with a carnal passion, an electric, magnetic and covetous desire, and the profound satisfaction that because she was mine, all of my various sensual appetites and ****** desires would be, one by one, fulfilled at length.
Her eyes remained softly closed as I indulged my ravenous vision to engorge myself with all the sensuousness that lay before me.
The net stockings that gripped her legs, which were visible from above the top of the tall, black leather boots that reached almost unto her knees, stretched higher on her thighs, to where they were encircled by a red lace band which itself disappeared under the rufflements of her gown, which was markedly shorter in the front than to behind. I stared with a desirous and hungry gaze, lusting over the contours of her legs, and filled with the titillating perception that each small, diamond shaped hole in her stockings was itself a window unto the soft, porcelain skin which laid beneath. Had it not been for sheer exhaustion, this sight alone would have been enough to pull me straight into eagerly satiating my rapacious urges.
Lifting my gaze slightly, I regarded with great admiration and desire, the corset she wore above her hips. Each and every fine, silver embroidered tracery outlined the underlying whalebone structure within, and produced such an elegant and magnificent pedestal upon which her ******* were the crown. For many dozens of breaths, I watched with an animalistic desire to play ravenous physicality onto her forms, how her chest rose and fell with quiet rhythmicity of slumber, and how the totality of her feminine attributes filled me with an insatiable carnal passion for her intimacy.
Similarly, my eyes journeyed along the lengths of the black lace and sheer gloves that she wore. The fingerless ends of her long and delicate gloves converged over her hands, which had both found a place of rest upon her left thigh. I followed the wider silver laces that zig-zagged up through each and every delicate, light-colored grommet, over and above her elbows and ending in a slightly thicker band of floral garter which supported them before reaching the shoulders.
Here, my eyes followed the lines of the two straps that crossed just below her collar bones as they found their attachment into a black velvet choker that encircled her neck. Naturally, I was then drawn to derive a burning adoration as I marveled at the long, straight strands of chestnut brown hair that flowed like a waterfall from the apex of her head into a curtain of soft filaments that draped delicately across her shoulders. Resting there, slightly above the top of her forehead, was a black wire tiara, dotted with amethyst, garnet and a thin silver line of embellishment along the frame. And, as if promulgated by the corona itself, filling the interior of the coach was the subtle but distinctive scent of thyme and artemisia that wafted from her hair and filled my soul with such a soothing, warm comfort, that even consumption of the finest absinthium spirits could not provide such profound solace. Her canine familiar, our robust and golden cocker spaniel, laid longways on the tufted seat to her right, and with a heavy drowsiness, rested his head upon her hip, as they both were gently jostled by the unremitting protuberances of the trail.
In this glorious moment, I was thoroughly contented and satisfied to have been given the blessed opportunity to gaze longingly upon the Countess, my loving and beautiful bride, while my mind again drifted into the fancies and possibilities which lay before us, where of most urgency and gratification, was to embark upon developing the small protectorate which we had established, here in Transylvania. And as my eyes fell shut with a heavy sluggishness, I could nearly feel the cool, moist grit of the Transylvanian soil between my fingers, and the sweet, earthen smell of petrichor lulled me deeper into the entrancing spell of our newfound home.
Oct 9, 2025
Oct 9, 2025 at 2:43 PM UTC
Bound in blessings with the Left -
Brother Left!
Joined in patriotic love of country - fellow man!
How we quarrel, quarrel, quarrel,
In pursuit of governing!
Stars and stripes define our kinship,
Coupled by our common heirship
Providential comforting;
Striving on, on, on,
In the stately pantheon,
And respectful competition of opinions coalesced
From the Left, Left, Left, Left,
Left, Left, Left -
From the striving and reviving of the Left.
Hear the agitating Left,
Fearful Left!
Having aspirations of equality expressed!
Notions quite inferior -
Vaunting ours - superior!
From the birth of modern man
The crown is ours.
God-anointed master plan
Grants the bounty to the chosen ruling clan -
Avatars!
Rightful is our point of view!
Such a farce to claim equivalence in detinue!
How undue!
How untrue!
Parity!?! They misconstrue!
Toleration? We eschew -
And the thieving, and deceiving
Of the Left, Left, Left,
Of the Left, Left, Left, Left,
Left, Left, Left -
To the squeaking and the shrieking of the Left!
Hear the loud and loathsome Left -
Traitor Left!
Behold their filthy claims of equity expressed!
Speaking for their people now,
In a gruesome, ghastly growl!
Bellowing their heresies,
From their foul vicinities,
Blasphemies!
All the voices tell me that the Left is savage and insane,
All the faces sell me feelings of derision and disdain,
Ceaseless refrain, refrain, refrain,
Feed the chorus to sustain
That which makes me feel exceptional,
Castigating as contemptible,
Anyone with views apart from mine.
Oh, the Left, Left! Left!
Inhumane and demonized,
Reviled!
How they dream, and scream, and scheme!
How could anyone oppose
Righteous, pure and godly promulgated truth?
Yet the chosen few persist,
Through the gnashing,
And the thrashing,
‘Owning Libs’ is sacrosanct;
Even though the mirror shows,
The heaving,
And the seething.
And the cowardice repeating,
Of the spinelessness - projected on the Left—
On the Left—
On the Left, Left, Left, Left,
Left, Left, Left—
In the droning and the groaning of the Left!
Hear the venom of the Left -
Evil Left!
Claiming equity of those awash in melanin!
Fetid fiends of arrogance,
Threatening our dominance,
Damaging hegemony,
Weakening supremacy,
Of the righteous, rightful heirs of kingdom come!
The heresies that they espouse,
Causes panic to arouse;
Evilness!
Oh! These wicked, loathsome creatures,
WIth disgusting, grotesque features;
Vileness!
And their preaching, preaching, preaching,
In their pitched and putrid screeching,
Mutual inclusion teaching!
Oh, what awful, wretched swine!
Having sold their own humanity
For prolonged insanity!
The fools!
Look at them! It’s not us, not me!
Can’t you see? See!?! See!!!
SEE!
Paranoia on the Left!
How delusional they are,
Maniacal are the Left!
Spying on my ev’ry move!
Telling lies, lies, lies!
Being kind is for the week!,
Tell that to the dreadful Left—
The wretched Left -
Telling lies, lies, lies!
Selfishness in virtue!
Hear the throbbing of the Left -
Of the Left, Left, Left -
Hear the sobbing of the Left;
Telling lies, lies, lies,
And they creep, creep, creep,
Spying on me as I sleep!
Oh! The mania of the Left -
Of the Left, Left, Left -
The hysteria of the Left,
Of the Left, Left, Left, Left -
Left, Left, Left -
And the moaning and the foaming of the Left.
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 2:18 PM UTC
“A curse!” my fist upraised in spiteful pain.
Departing country of my birth, upturned
By war, disease. This England, inhumane,
Where all my past and aspirations burned.
West Indies bound, with brothers, to fulfill
Indentured servitude on Nevis land.
Eight years I worked and toiled there until
Emancipation from contract’s command.
But all the while in service to my debt,
I learned of herbs and healing charms and rites,
From African descendants that I met,
Who gave me knowledge under moonlit nights.
The practices and skills I mastered there -
Twas Voodoo that I learned and brought to bear.
Twas Voodoo that I learned and brought to bear,
And practiced healing methods as my trade,
As blowing winds of change were in the air,
When plans to sail to lands anew were made.
St. Mary’s County, Maryland would be
The place where I would strive to build a life
Of quiet service in community
Where tolerance and peace supplanted strife.
I worked the fertile fields with grit and pride
That all my efforts lifted those in need
Through persevering work that dignified
My efforts for the village to succeed.
Despite my earnest struggle to upraise,
Suspicion always seemed to stalk my days.
Suspicion always seemed to stalk my days,
By whispered words or cautious, wary glance.
Though healing practice often won me praise,
My dealings often seemed to feel askance.
The Puritanic disposition here
Would view outsiders with uneasiness.
The nonconformists lived with modest fear
Of retribution for unseemliness.
A delicate relationship maintained
A peace between the members of the church,
And denizens who lived there unconstrained
By dogma, doctrine, or of Christian smirch.
This tenuous existence would unbind
In Sixteen Ninety Seven’s wintertime.
In Sixteen Ninety Seven’s wintertime,
Calamities unfolded in the town.
The first, a death, was thought to be a crime,
A charge of mine would accidentally drown.
Another came of unexpected cold
That set just after Samhain of that year.
It stayed beyond what almanac foretold,
And racked the hearts of men with mortal fear.
An illness plagued the homes of old and young,
Consistently defying scripture’s laws.
As bells of solemn funerary rung,
Their beasts of burden died without a cause.
An icy grip of fear would tribulate,
As anxious Christians sought to obviate.
As anxious Christians sought to obviate
The pestilence that hereupon was set,
They sought official seal to perpetrate
The persecution of suspected threat.
The Council met to hear complaints of those
Affected by suspicious tragedies.
The governor declared a writ to discompose,
Evict the ‘witch’ - the source of maladies.
Expressing reservations, some of them
Suggested much more civil remedy.
But hateful brutes moved swiftly to condemn
What they had judged to be their enemy.
As howling wind and snow befell the night
The mob set out to remedy the blight.
The mob set out to remedy the blight,
That they suspected had to come from me.
A ‘witch’ they claimed, had surely caused their plight,
And only death could end her blaspheme.
No trial, judge or jury sealed my fate
Just superstitious Christians and their fear,
With burning torches lit to conflagrate,
My home, my peace, and make me disappear.
They came for me, encircling my house,
They came for me, when I was warm in bed,
They came for me, as silent as a mouse.
They came for me, in hopes to see me dead.
The flames engulfed my cottage straightaway,
I had but seconds to escape the fray.
I had but seconds to escape the fray,
With nothing but the clothes upon my back,
There into blinding blizzard cast away,
Absconding from unmerciful attack.
I trudged through blinding snows with helplessness,
And found no sheltered harbor to protect
My body, from the tempest’s dreadfulness,
Or soul, that God would surely soon collect.
Exposure quickly forced a quivered breath,
With freezing force that I could not suppress.
Before my body fin’lly froze to death,
I screamed with all my might and forcefulness:
“My wrathful spell, on thee, I appertain!”
“A curse!” my fist upraised in spiteful pain.
Sep 26, 2025
Sep 26, 2025 at 7:55 PM UTC
Ah! It was there, and a lifetime ago,
In that kingdom by the sea,
Our love was unfurled - our own little world,
And you called me Annabel Lee;
We lived and we loved and such passion we shared,
And I showered my love on thee.
We were but children with dreams of our life,
In that kingdom by the sea,
I was your princess and you were my prince,
And you called me Annabel Lee.
We planned our dominion and dreamed of our future -
A future for you and me.
But down came the wind with its icy embrace,
So cold and capriciously;
The clouds that were sent from the angels above,
Were born of their jealousy.
They envied our love and conspired to break
The bonds between you and me.
And so lies my body returning to dust;
The curse of mortality.
But death could not sever the bonds of our love -
United perpetually.
Our souls are a part of each others’, as one,
Just as the salt in the sea,
Or unceasing tide - my darling, my pride,
Will soon be returning to me.
I’ve watched as the decades have taken their toll,
Upon your longevity -
Upon your vitality -
You’ve never abandoned the love for your bride,
So true and so faithfully.
You’ve waited through time to renew our embrace,
So well and so patiently.
By the setting of sun, our two souls will be one,
My love, you’ll be coming to me;
And the dawning of night, will have us reunite,
My love, you’ll be coming to me;
Upon this night-tide, you will be by my side;
This moonlit night - my darling - my love and my pride,
In our sepulchre, there by the sounding sea -
Tonight! - together, blissfully.
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 1:01 PM UTC
Tumbling, twisting, reeling
Careening
Aimless, afraid, alone
Wandering
Hoping, wishing, seeking
Wondering
There you were
Your eyes
Your heart
Bewildered, confused, excited
Opening
Desiring, yearning, craving
Adoring
Breathless, excitement, serenity
Intensifying
It could only be you
Your gravity
Your embrace
Spinning, orbiting, entangling
Intertwining
Uniting, merging, dissolving
Fulfilling
Blissful, exhilarated, serene
Rejoicing
The twin I never knew
Before this life
And forever after
How could salt poured into a lake ever be reclaimed?
How could my flame ever be separated after merging with you?
My fire
My soul
My passion
My forever
My home
You
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 9:20 PM UTC
May peace and truth beguide my wounded soul
That tends and treats the sick with caring hands.
Compassioned heart for mothers new, and ole,
And infants brought to bear within these lands.
With bone and herb, and balm and flame, my trade
Is healing, birthing, mending. Berwick North
At Nether Keith I dwelt. No accolade
I sought, but honed my skills and blossomed forth.
Though widowed, I, with help of kith and kin,
Provided care and nourishment to those
Whom surgeons spurned or medics cast chagrin.
This tough but noble calling here, I chose.
These humble skills in time became revered,
Until the cold distrust of church appeared.
Until the cold distrust of church appeared,
Content was I, to toil through my days.
My truthful testimony volunteered,
When called upon to answer for my ways.
At Haddington I stood and spoke my truth,
That ne’er was dev’lish force about my dwell,
Nor thoughts nor will of evil. Nay, forsooth!
Tis virtue that beguides this mortal shell.
“A godly, humble, simple maid am I,
That tends the sick and lame with loving touch.
The wanton work of evil I decry,
And guard myself from Satan’s icy clutch”.
But far from calming fears of devil’s coup,
The Presbet’ry’s suspicion only grew.
The Presbet’ry’s suspicion only grew
As I continued practicing my craft.
My prayerful, solemn words they’d misconstrue,
And scribe them as an evil, carnal draft.
“All kinds of ills that ever be, be gone!
Both more and less and all the mass - and stone!
And right the blood that reeked o’er truthful rood
Of forth and flesh and of the Earth and bone!”
By name of God and Christ, I conjure thee!
That binds and heals the sinew and the vein
That sin shall have no vex of malady
And cast away the putrid and profane.
As sabbats turn, and seasons changing tide,
Contrary winds would surely soon collide.
Contrary winds would surely soon collide
As James the Sixth’s ambition sought to claim
Dominion over witch or devil’s bride
Who’d threaten order o’er his vast domain.
On Hallows Eve the coven met, they say,
At Auld Kirk Green with witches dancing free.
Consorting with the devil fore the day
And sacrificed a cat to sink at sea.
By this I was arrested for the crime
Of witchcraft and a plot to sink the king
While sailing home with bride on seas sublime
Where ghastly winds and danger forth did bring.
Imprisoned now, in chains, awaiting fate
With torture’s looming fear yond prison gate.
With torture’s looming fear yond prison’s gate,
I steel myself for what may lie ahead.
With nerves alight, in silence here, I wait,
Consumed with ever growing sense of dread.
To dungeon cast where instruments of pain
Would tear my flesh and stab unto the bone.
Deprived of sleep, my thoughts became insane.
My will began to fade, my spirit flown.
Despite the searing pain and agony,
My innocence of evil, I maintained.
The torture did not break my sanity,
Until their searching left me unconstrained.
When privy mark of devil came to view,
Confessed, I did, declaring charges true.
Confessed, I did, declaring charges true,
And brought to trial swiftly on the morn.
I never would be spared from death, I knew,
When guilty I did plead, confession sworn.
At Holyrood the trial did commence
With charges read and evidence amassed.
No counsel did I keep, nor recompense
In predetermined manner, judgement passed.
Convicting witches demonstrates the might
Of King, despite perpetuating lies,
Regardless of the sin of claiming “right”
While wrongfully convicted person dies.
But such is true of Christian powerlust
That soon I’ll be returning to the dust.
That soon I’ll be returning to the dust
Is fear and anguish, tormenting my soul.
To die by execution as I must,
I pray that God will soon receive me whole.
The rope ‘round neck was drawn for bringing death,
Constricted, strangled, held to agonize
And suffocated wind and air and breath.
Asphyxiating into my demise.
With final, fading vision seeing flames,
My body, limp and hanging from the stake,
As fire consumes my flesh and fin’lly claims,
My life, my name, my truth, let none forsake.
A casualty of Christian wrathful toll,
May peace and truth beguide my wounded soul.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 11:41 AM UTC