(In a folklore book, many 21st century readers are intrigued by the story "The Sheep Keep," a legend about a girl Looney Meek and how she haunts humanity. Few have said they faced her, and many wonder whether or not she was a real person. The poem below is the legend surrounding Looney Meek and how she rose to power; her story is inspirational and teaches us the consequences of our actions and how people pay off their debts through karma.)
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Legend says there is a place
that is neither Heaven or Hell;
A place where a witch
shall have you say "farewell."
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Rumors speculate that the flames consumed me whole,
no corpse to prove my soul ---
just ashes that scorched the ground,
and the name the town could not sound.
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Looney Meek, hands of ash,
rose laughing,
feeling flame and wrath;
cloaked in what people say, "Devil's Bath."
I had risen from the ashes,
What a paradigm!
Not even the sand of time can undermine.
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I hunted those who burned her name,
and cursed their blood, I was not sane.
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The village blackened, livestock fell,
the holy books could not rebel,
The only sound left was the church bells.
No ordinary girl,
one who wears your wool.
My crooked smile deformed,
the preacher's robes were torn ---
sermons left aboard my ward
I etched her name, unforgotten,
I cursed the town of Boston.
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People say I cursed the rain and sheep,
poisioned folks and their uncertainty ----
The truth, they say, sways when its judgment day,
when the holy great banishes their graves,
The sheep taste their bitterness
and cannot prove their permanent residence.
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I vanished where the forest swells,
The trials where women were Salem's spells ----
and became a huntress, veiled and cold,
my pain a weapon, my rage controlled;
calculated and bold.
I, Looney Meek, spent those days avenging my turmoil,
and hunted the men that caused mine and mother's foil.
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Now, you question my legacy,
funeral parlors feel my energy,
I feast upon contemporary sheep,
those that blindly follow lines of conformity.
The fields grow wild,
More lost sheep where I beguiled.
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When you are chosen,
you will see the stake, the fire,
my final plea,
before men had chosen my life's destiny
where women let my body deform due to misogyny.
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You'll hear silence when it's dark,
"The Sheep Keep" carved in twisted bark,
a large metal fence, and dark,
no wind or blame ----
just Meek's resting place.
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No man dare speaks my name aloud
they fear my whereabouts ----
not fully human or a girl,
just a shapeshifter that mirrors your world.
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And yet...
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Old books and parchments sketch my legend,
My story survives beyond righteousness,
a criticism or a real myth,
Many people ponder its reliability.
My legend haunts time,
people dream of a girl with beady eyes and a haunted form
eyes too wide to comfort what was sworn.
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The curious whisper in the quiet woods,
they chant her name beneath floorboards,
hoping that they see a transformed soul,
the residue of a tormented girl.
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Many say that
"She wasn't wicked, only wise—
She has saved bloodlines;
Is she real? Will she make deals?
Am I saved beyond Earth's tales?"
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Many have called upon me
and have shared their dilemmas:
on what's real or memory,
remember when you scrawl my prayer,
and see a young woman smile from the corner ----
and if ravens circle overhead,
and if mirrors crack with three steads,
and my birds and I with cross arms against our heads,
just know you've crossed my shadow's path ----
And I will not hold back.