No Remorse, You've Taught Us Your Ways

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: December 16, 2011

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Submitted: December 16, 2011



Her death was acronychal,
Oh, what a beldam she was,
No surprise they left her body to beaze.

You can listen to the storm,
She’s still here, I heed her last words,
Her screams hit me and merge with the breeze.

I was there on that day,
However, it wasn’t by my fault,
Had I been given more time it might have been.

Intimidation, I felt,
I believe that all did while in her presence.
She thought of viciousness as her best virtue.

She did no scold you, not physically,
Her words were acidic, though,
Drops of poison from her serpent tongue.

Eyes of night, dark as pitch,
Beads of coal sunken into pasty white.
For miles, they saw, eons witnessed, ends they awaited.

Not her own but of course not,
The ones around her, the ones she tortured so,
Their suffering kept her busy, but often boredom would come.

Never did she shed a tear,
Not one emotion had she ever felt,
Opposite the rest of us, I doubt she had a soul.

Had they not been rid of her,
I fear she’d outlive the world,
Through all the years she’d seen, she never aged a day.

Eyes not weary, body never somnolent,
While the rest of us, deserving to remain,
Fade away and, in her company, welcome death with open arms.

From the cellar where we kept,
We head a minor ruckus from above our chamber.
Hasty whispers, not from us, no, she wasn’t to be disturbed.

This time of day was hers,
Who could it have been, we were all accounted for.
Something fell, crashed, a sharp break split the nervous air.

I imagine we all stared upward,
Hoping to see through the cracked floorboards, inches from our heads.
I recall hearing a whimper behind me, rapidly hushed in angst.

Something more fell,
Bigger this time, less fragile,
It sounded like the thump of lifeless flesh.

Was it he intruder?
Was it our Mistress Warden?
The external cellar door opened and we all pushed away.

The light hurt our skin,
Those of us calling the crypt our home,
Never left the quarters, hadn’t seen the sun in over three years.

A thick, healthy figure stood,
Silhouetted against the mid-set daylight,
Not hers, not the one that we all expected to see.

Relieved, as we were,
We still predicted her to show and conquer,
But the subtle dripping of blood, now visible to us, convinced otherwise.

Without hesitation, we wrapped our skin,
Rushed outwards, next, into the house,
Staring at the limp remains of the bitter woman on the floor.

To my dismay, children laughed,
I found my own self smiling just at the thought,
The killer, our God, hoisted her corpse and brought her out to the meadow.

In the sunlight, she was laid,
We, all of us, cared not who could see,
All in the town knew of her ways, not one would concern.

Her death was acronychal,
Oh, what a beldam she was,
No surprise we left her body to beaze.


© Copyright 2018 Brenna Lynn. All rights reserved.