
Neat conditions for infants—
Overcrowded and rotting—
Threnody fills a mother’s throat.
Good people busy “doing good”
Othering the weak and vulnerable.
Offenders find victims offensive—
Don’t you believe in spectres, too?
Father’s suicide, fear her prayer—
Official words will spread the scare.
Repression religicizing—no repair.
Secure her other daughter!
A witch’s bitch be guilty too.
Raggamuffin rejection by reprobates.
Assembly of the apostates—showtime—
How many more are there?
POET’S NOTE:
An acrostic Scorched Sunday poem. Part of my Scorched Strays collection. Salem, Massachusetts, 1692.
© 2026 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.



Leave a comment