Witch's Pyre

Green snakes erupt from a time-glass jar,
but the lid never opened.
They seep to the air and pollute it with streams of sickly grime,
causing disease to follow every mile.
Just like her hair, that river of blood pouring from her head.
I remember it well as she passed by,
first when she was a child, and so was I.
Strange and beautiful, with innocent mischief.
Now dark and defiled.
I look on sadly as she passes by again.
No robe of green to cover her proud mane,
or shield her eyes from those who sought her dead.
I feel a tear slip down my face as she stands
on the witch's pyre, her leaf eyes looking at the men around her
with defiance. The torches are lit and set to the wood,
but I never heard her scream.
Laughing and chuckling, eerie in the wind,
like a banshee calling to her newly summoned dead,
she disappeared in the flames, but I couldn't watch.
I remember too well the taste of her kiss in my head.