The Darkest wood.
9th February 2018
The arch of the pen.
The beating of life.
The rattle of death.
The essence of night.
You dance like Ivy creeps through the forests veins, entwining, circling, blood fuelled lanes.
Pumping, jumping, my eyes they strain. Beating bosoms, crimson rain.
Fireside wonder, echo’s of memories frozen friends and long gone babies.
Crackling timber, ginger embers.
Golden logs and why we remember.
The weight of your legs where you once lay across me.
The weightlessness, emptiness of wherever it is you may be.
Night air circles metaphors like spirals dance through closed doors and watch me sleep.
Gatekeepers, guides and perception dwellers.
Florence Nightingale, Elvis and dirty old fella’s.
I sigh glass and razors as you ignore my dreams.
My messages were muted and unheard were my screams.
I tried to forget, to distract, not to feel nor over react. I tried, I’m good like that but alas….
The cover’s came back and there you stood all big smiles and blood boiling.
Hard wired, lung fuelled desire with my skin crawling.
Red fingertips to dark lips. All warm humour and coy hips.
Until those slender fingers slip and held tight. Falls my grip and I’m ready with eyes locked.
You smile with your lips half cocked and the show stops.
Your skin falls like apple peelings, thick wedges dropping like meals and I scream a poor warning from a living dream at the edge of my story.
Tasting like heaven as the darkness and glory vanishes both the lady and me.
I’m blinded by the light you left in that empty space, the silence is deaf.
I’ve started naming my fingers as they tap out your name.
There’s marks in the keyboard that are one and the same.
They say I’m obsessed because I kept your shirt.
I sprayed it and saved it and bagged up the dirt.
I framed it, tamed it and displayed it.
I scratched out the Voodoo eyes. Remade the coffin and restitched the eyes.
The potato grew with cursed hex stew a common plus a new boys clue.
No one knew. No one knew.
Not even you. Not even you.
I knew. I knew.
The pebbles stirred, the matches blew. The spirits wailed the mountains knew.
Echo’s passed in solid murmurs. Loving magic against the world.
Unnaturally supernatural, perfectly imperfect.
Summoned like an astral wonder, you’d be the treasure I love to plunder.
They mistakenly believe hair colour matters, eyes or height and all the patter.
There’s only one thing that kick starts the fun. “Do I want her, is she my next one?”
The character I take from head to toe. I dress her, bless her and mess her up slow.
Tangle her hair, speak softly and whisper. Take hold of her throat and forcibly kiss her.
Make her late for work with a mark on her bum.
She’ll still rise to the top she’s a powerful one.
I digress I simply got carried away.
I create the girls.
It’s the only way they stay.
© G.P Williamson 2018