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Rated: · Poetry · Biographical · #1673471
A poem for my ancestor Mary Estey who died by hanging on September 22,1692.
Nineteen of Salem's Witches,

I think of only one, the wife,

the woman, the heroine from whom

I'm proud I've sprung.

Alas! A cruel statement, three girls who

to you accused, you and your two sisters

of witchcraft as your muse.

Curses, potions and magic spells was their

vile claim, what they hoped that they would

spark, what did they hope to gain?

To take your life and smash it like a Mellon

upon a stone? To take your beaten body

and bite it to the bone?

That pathetic congregation, those

deranged men of the church, believed

such wild fancies and took them straight

to court and you and nineteen others

were the unlucky ones you see; for the

religious zealots and paranoid insane refused

to set you free.

Yet you stubborn as ever, continued to stand

your ground, stating that you are innocent

when all the people round...must have looked

in awe and horror as those vicious girl remained

acting out their demonic fits so that their lies

remained.

Forgiving and so willing you were to dismiss, the

souls who hung a noose around you, when vengeance

I would kiss.

Even when the end came and your fate was sealed,

you retained your dignity and your pride, your spirit they couldn't kill.



Now I'm thinking of you Mary Easty dear and aware I am that

my cowardly soul to you does not compare.

You were ne'er witch nor wizard, no demon of any kind

you were the truest Christian God could ever find.

You retained your innocence, you retained your pride

and when your world fell apart you pardoned them before

you died.

I however stand here descended of your seed and curse and

spit I do those girls who took your life away.

I shall never pardon them, never will I dismiss and I curse

their memory everyday I ponder it. They are the witches

of Salem and suffered I hope they did from the guilt of the

evil games they played and the gallons of blood they spilt.







I hope that they had suffered, a vicious, nagging pain which

would reflect their filthy souls in which the devil gave.

In hell I hope I see them and then vengeance I will hold, for

the agony that they caused so many years ago.





© Copyright 2010 Fianna Jester (madshelley at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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