Araignée
They believed her to be the harlot of the 15th century.
Heedless to the mask;
They trusted the persona of an undervalued whore taken for a fool.
Her name was Araignée.
A deceitful insect she was when the sun went down,
Stirring poisons in her cauldron.
But then they found her,
Bound her; before things were complete.
They blamed her for the curses,
Blamed her for the plague.
She accepted her fate
When they opened the gate,
Hanging her inches off the ground.
Death is only the beginning.
And what the town failed to see
Was a witch inside an innocent body.
Overruling her mind,
All emotions immobilized.
Today I speak of the spider that crawls the halls of my insides.
Her tightly spun webs captured my brain’s freedom long ago.
Not but an easy task for she’s done it times before.
And the sickest part of it all is
Feeling repulsed by the comfort from her company
When she climbs right out my mouth onto my shoulder.
Together we’ll sit under the moon’s majestic glow, conspiring “our” next move.
She wonders for us both:
Will they blame me for the curses?
Will they blame me for the plague?
Copyright © Natasha Ventura | Year Posted 2010
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