by Nick Gisburne
He told her, always, bend but never break.
She mourned for him, her father, when he died,
But, when she dragged his body from the lake,
She promised not to cower, not to hide.
The man who made it happen, Brother Jack,
Had patience, people, power, silent, strong.
No vengeance ever brought a dead man back,
But witchery can sing a darker song.
She sold her soul, a bargain with a beast,
For nothing but the chance to see him burn.
Pathetic, naked, quivering, the priest,
Alone, alive, was made, at last, to learn.
For every inch she offered to the flame,
A scream, a curse, a cry, her father’s name.
