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


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



This poem is about: 
My community


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