UK Poet, Philosopher & Artist Ivor Griffiths' Official Website

Witch’s Asp.

Witch’s Asp.

Swagger, curled lip snarl, high level android mentat, logic processor,
feelings guesser.
Thin mist of never caught thoughts hovers in periphery,
smeared to grey fog’s pirouette effect – velvetine leatherette,
luxury he imagines. Wrong again, of course,
Null void; reactionless, marble stone-faced cold, beard icicles dangle.

She surveys him, with warm love, no melting,

“You’re cold, callous, full of badness, suck the goodness from me,”
Evil you are, no feeling, don’t feel, don’t care don’t know.

She cried it like a Lioness who has lost a cub to the new Lion,
face crumpled in pain.

Hurt words exploding invisibly
around flint eyed ice bearded man

“love, yes,” he said.
“love, but never call, never go, never ask, never a card or a word, never…..”

The hurt he saw it, it evolved like a limpet, it stuck
to his thoughts, it evolved into a burrowing thing, it burrowed into his brain,
the bit that feels and explains the pain.

And he saw it there in her, he did, he saw it there. The first time
he cried he couldn’t stop. It hurt a lot.
Not him, her, he thought, not me her, he thought, he tried to anyway.

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