Poems - Witch Series

Burn

Is this what it has come to?
Waiting for death,
my sister next to me.

Eleanor deserved this.
Doesn’t all family?
But what did I do?

The purest of all white magic
was needed to bind her,
black magic and all.

Our future surrounded us.
The newly ordained priest
reluctantly sentenced us the day before.

Was he afraid of us?
Of my sister?
She certainly wanted him dead.

With the town crying at us to burn
I stopped my sister’s attempted murder
And closed my eyes for the last time.










Watching and Waiting

Evil most foul.
Vile and filthy sinners,
all of them.

Sister sinners,
christened dirty
for blood-linking with their ancestors.

All deserve to burn in
fire and brimstone.
The law does not understand what I must do.

Executions were done
one way and one way only.
There are no hangings anymore.

My predecessor was wrong.
I killed him.
No confession to punishing the guilty.

My collar didn’t look as white as usual.
The prisoners were mumbling.
Nothing happened.










Dog Walking

Spike is taking a shit.
He does so on this spot every day.
He’s never been told not to.

New York City is a great place.
Passerby’s don’t notice.
Passerby’s don’t care.

A woman walked by.
She dressed funny.
Was today Halloween?

The dress she wore was in rags,
torn through the middle,
not covering her modesty.

I smiled.
Was she protesting?
Maybe a flower child wannabe?

I smiled again as she turned
and dropped all pretenses.
Her steely glare chilled me.










The Perfect Sacrifice

The twenty-first century.
I was no longer feared.
I am the last of my kind.

My traitorous sister,
long dead and buried
with the rest of the bloodline.

Doesn’t matter now.
I came here for a reason.
The Perfect Sacrifice.

No one will stop me.
The male with the four-legged creature;
both will howl in pain before I finish.

I shed my clothing, beginning the ritual on
a male in uniform, the local executioner,
The Perfect Sacrifice.

“The valley draws me near,
I taketh that which I must,
soul of an unclean warrior.”










Fire

She was talking about me.
The chanting was creepy.
Miranda Rights needed to be read.

Pulling out my handcuffs I said,
“You have the right to remain silent.”
I didn’t get any further.

My eyes exploded in blinding pain.
I dropped to the ground, grabbing my temples.
I reached for my gun.

Iron hot, it burned my hand,
blazing like fire.
How do I put it out?

My heart raced, not from adrenaline.
The pain spread.
My clothes were on fire.

I was on fire.
A young woman rushed to my defense.
I saw no more.










Fireworks

My ancestor.
Eleanor.
Sister of Hannah.

How did I know it was her?
How is she here?
She turns to me expressionless.

The haunted look
in her eyes
frightened me.

“I don’t need you anymore,”
she said to the dead policeman,
“Ancestor’s blood is stronger.”

Absorbing my gasp,
I twisted it into my own device of
horrors to unleash.

I closed my eyes.
Eleanor screamed.
She light up the street like a fireworks display.