Sitting high on many horses
Self Rightious. Professed all knowing.
The ominous voice of our supposed deified ancestor
I am not as sullied as you think
Witch
Bold women of the devil's desire
Luring good, god fearing men from their pious marriage beds
Pointing quickly with stone fingers
From behind their fragile glass walls
The acrid taste of fire licks at my tongue
Trying in vain to block out the cries of my sisters
As their tender flesh pops and sizzles into the waiting flames
Supposedly it is to purify us
Unclean and filthy souls that we are
Yet we gave you birth
Tended your sick and cared for your wounded
Witch
A mere woman's Pagan gods set your heart a flutter
Filled your soul with the frigid winds of hell
Scared. So scared you burned and burned even when no fat for the fires was found
You always made sure there was wicked flesh to "cleanse"
Superstitious nonsense.
Your people will fear into the dawn
No amount of slaughter will stifle the haunting howl of a full moon
Nor will you ever silence the vibracious voice of magick
For we are not few but many
We are the blood of the earth