Burn Me
My religion has been pillaged
and ripped from its roots,
the damage is so deep it has yet to regrow.
I stumble amongst the still-smoking
ashes, my beliefs are so charred
I am lost.
My beauty’s sacred symbol sold for $9.95,
a piece of cheap costume jewelry-
Devil’s mask sold separately.
Renaissance fairies flounce it about,
the Pyre is not looming in the distance
and they are safe around their maypole.
American Fighter planes proudly display,
the last image seen before fire engulfs is
my Pentacle of unity, used to destroy.
You cannot destroy with which you create.
Every Witch is born knowing
our history, branded on our skin
and seared bright as the flames,
the flames that we are born from,
the flames that cannot burn us;
You cannot destroy with which you create.
My heart burns as it beats,
giving life to the spirit
Of the hunted,
Of the beaten,
Of the burned,
of the survivors,
Who kept our Craft alive
casting spells in the
Witching Hour,
pressing herbs into their
Bibles,
Deuteronomy staring back up at them;
their one sanctuary is
between passages of condemnation.
And I know
that as you hide behind your crosses,
you picture me atop of one
surrounded by the fire,
your modern day executionary pyre.
But you cannot destroy with which you create,
and this Witch can’t be burned
Anymore.