Old wives-tales are whispered in
the distance; burn the witch,
she's chaotic and a hindrance.
How glad I am those times are
no longer nigh, I say bitterly as I sigh.
Of screaming flesh and rotting voices,
burnt stakes and poor, poor choices.
Innocent lives crumbled to ash, as
powerful men with sinful motives clash
swinging their metaphorical swords of hatred,
their weapon misogyny, not yet obliterated.
Not yet, but how great a victory the church
bells will sound, victorious as the old feminists
renounce. A battle fought by voices and marches
by the week, lost only to the deterred silence of
the meek.
We will win, we will not concede, or fall victim
to one man's greed. In the history of the whole
humankind, this will be the most important
situation.
Like orange, like apple, like peel, like rind,
we were stripped of many a' layer; sweet find.
No more we chant, no more the dirty man's payer.
Our liberation a beautiful occasion.
YOU ARE READING
Blackberry Thistles ✓
Poetrypoems as delicate as the fruit itself, and as thought-provoking as the sour aftertaste. All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2019 Kate H. > third place winner of the gem-mers awards poetry section 2020
