they burned me, and spurned me,

witch and her wares

cast me apart with their self-righteous stares

they call me a moth to their smoldering heat

say the brute deserves the rotten gray meat

“cast your spells, wiccan!” they hoot with a sneer

“call down the fierce rain to save from fates near!”

i stand and i burn, hot scorn in my chest

and hold to the wind drawn down from the west

they strike up a match, i breathe in the air

the last clean gulp of sweet dew, im aware

i swallow poison, let it wash my lungs

let flames lick my feet, a lashing of tongues

i dare close my eyes? i dare stay aware?

to watch the sun judge with fiery glare?

i bask in its anger, its fury and ire

i perish myself to spurn the liar

as i melt together with fiber and wood

and fall into ashes to sleep where i stood

i do not win, do not triumph— i fall;

my victory is in my standing at all.