"More weight" last words of Giles Cory a Witch of Salem

Hate, with chaos, in the end there can only be death.
There is no justice when the devils hand are at work.
I focus on the black dirt underneath my finger tips
my head hung low as I sit on the wooden bench
hateful voices taunt me to make a decision.
A young woman shouts out for my death
and I know her, I use to cut firewood
for her mother when she was only but a child.
The black dirt falls from my finger tips. Down
to the hard wooden floor beneath my feet.
I remain silent amongst the voices of the mad world.

The devil himself whispers into my ear
to save my life I must give up my soul.
A twisted fate of irony to play such a game.
The three judges look at me for I am a guilty man.
There is no sense to argue for they have already
made up their minds to save my soul with fire.
whispers around the courtroom for everyone
to hear and judge. The voices become my noose
held tightly around my neck, so I can no longer breathe.
Their hate pushes me to make a choice
I remain silent amongst the voices of the mad world.

Days pass and the patience of the mob has finally ended.
Stone after stone is placed in a pile
that is now my only passageway into Heaven.
That is through the hate of man
and stones placed in a pile. For one
last chance to break my faith.
A man forces me to my knees with such disdain.
my heart sinks thinking of his wife, who I
helped carry rye grain into her home and made
the best bread, which I've told her so.
There is such a hateful lust in their eyes as I'm forced down.
I remain silent amongst the voices of the mad world.

The option to live has long passed.
A grey stone covered in black dirt is placed on my chest,
one after another my head turns from the counting mob.
Simply another stone added to the pile.
My eyes focus on a stranger dressed all in black
as he stands in the distance along the shadows.
His eyes glare red with a smirk on his face
who could only be the devil of this town.
In his hand he holds a pile of the dark earth
that could only come from the sands of Salem.
He releases the earth from his finger tips
into the wind that carried it away from this place
and I feel my soul free from the weight.
With a tip of his hat my vision started to fade
as I watch the devil walk back towards Ipswich road.
My reality, my soul, returns to me for this moment
so that I may finally speak out to the
voices of the mad world.


Historical note:

Giles Cory was accused of witch craft like so many others. He refused to plea guilty or innocents and by law was stoned to death.  "More weight" was his last words and this piece goes over his last days as a historical fiction.