They burned a witch in Boxford Square last Sunday evening. 

The white ash piled high while the settlers waited for the daemon to die,

She muttered words of ancient lore.

The flames were ghastly white like fresh fallen snow…

And she who muttered never sputtered her promises while the flame possesses her non-broken hexes.

They burned a witch in Boxford Square before the holy sanctuary of the godly folk.

A pastor raised their bony hand to send her back to her maker.

A farmer threw a jagged stone—her rosy cheek turned crimson…

But there was something sinister in the way her eyes spoke, and her mouth stayed stitched shut.

The ties that bind her strained against the horrid fire.

They burned a witch in Boxford Square; her eyes wide with humor.

While the villagers gasped with rumors.

She was just a mute maiden, no wilder than a mouse.

They had bound her to a post faster than they gonged the church’s bells.

They had scowls aiming her to hell, but she laughed and laughed like a crazed man drunk on rum.

Villagers dared not speak when she hums.

Her ruby lips cast warnings of her burnings…

Not one dared listen…

Not one dared speak…

Not one dared see…

As she burned on the village pyre the warnings she cursed grew higher.