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    Wrongfully Accused


    Wrongfully Accused
    (The story of Sarah Good)

    Essex County, Colonial Massachusetts - 1692

    Life used to be normal, then ventured through turpitude.
    I was wed to a man, that's indentured to servitude.
    Then enter the church, askew - judging us often.
    We tried cutting our costs spent - budgets with caution.
    Nothing but lost cents, all out of options,
    I've been nothing but lost since they hauled off his coffin.
    My husband, my love, oh the perilous dread!
    The next one I marry - inherits his debt.
    This man is so Good, I disparage at best.
    2 children and poor, but hysterics have spread.
    Town's calling us shrewd; I was appalled at the news.
    The Reverend's daughter had the gall to accuse?!



    The trial was amiss, laws failed in dissent.
    I was convicted on lies, and held in contempt.
    "No chance of escape! the bailiff would tempt.
    I stared 'cross the room, the plaintiff was kempt.
    They shackled my feet, the case is cement.
    The guards at my cell warn, "Don't make an attempt."
    Each morning they tortured, rape with intent
    of, restoring the order, and to make me repent.
    They pressed for confessions, to an aimless extent.
    Guess my expression was rated - consent.
    Days turned to nights, they came and they went.
    My mind's blocking it out, I can't wait to forget.

    Til that time they arrived, new convict in tow,
    same crime as my own, and the hostage below.
    I glanced at her face, and lost my repose....
    "My daughter!! She's six!! I seethed. (Hauntingly rose)

    Guard: HURRY UP!! STRAP HER IN!!



    Drip.

    Drip.

    Drip.


    The sound is so maddening!
    I turn and I twist, but I'm bound, this flow saddens me.
    What's even happening?
    My consciousness - in & out ... Vision is blackening.
    I'm livid and babbling, this is so baffling.
    The water that drips is so frigid and dampening.
    "Wicked one, answer me!!"
    He yells, but the liquid is canvassing -
    the lines on my face gone rigid. Insanity.
    "Give me my amnesty!"
    I scream, driven to apathy.
    A smile creeps on his face as he mimics my agony.

    They used the Heretic's Fork. I was read to by Hallows.
    The time come at last, I was lead to the Gallows.
    The Iron Maiden was opened; I was pulled from the spikes.
    I'd survived it for months, off spoonfuls of rice.
    The Village had gathered, with pitchforks they cried,
    "Hang the Crone or we burn her!" This "Witch"? - forced to die.
    Every meal that I cooked, they had called it "my Brew".
    Though, all that had boiled in my Cauldron was stew.
    I was noosed up and hung, the final twitch riled Pagans.
    My alibi was my death, in the Witch Trials in Salem.












    (Side note : for those who care or are wondering Sarah Good's daughter did in-fact survive the trials. She was released on bond in Dec of 1692 and never further prosecuted, as the trials were winding down and losing support)


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    @Rude

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