It was difficult to breathe,
It was even harder to swallow,
I can't open my eyes,
To see the shards of glass piercing on my sole.
I can hear people around me,
They are here to witness my parade,
I can't help but smile, hearing their cheers–
Cheering about my death by burning.
Now they are tying me on a tree,
Around me are different pieces of woods,
And numerous twigs to start the fire,
I wonder if these can really kill me.
They say I'm a witch,
Dangerous because of my curses,
Yet they never realized that I'm just protecting them from what's outside this forest,
From a bigger monster than I am.
The flames burned my skin,
Yet I just gave them my knowing smile,
13 days later, the fire is still on,
As I watch the monster consume them all.
Yes, I am a witch,
But remember–
I'm the witch you couldn't burn,
And couldn't kill.
YOU ARE READING
Always on the 13th Hour
PoetryThis is a collection of prose and poetry, and a bunch of thoughts that keeps me awake every night. This is all about what goes on every 13th hour... if that hour even exists.
