blew
harken to the witches tune
its bubbling notes dispersing
so its cauldron of olfactic
sorrow blew threw my soul
its gusting waves of air and odour
writing the quest for understanding
and compassion where ere it blew
that sense of capture
and while the truth felt by blood
may not in itself be reality
the torture therein for those who feel its chill
are to the essence of their thin bones core
wrapped and defiled in the scum of human flesh
for where is the keen muscle of solace
when the devil codes within our dark schema
its malice on its walls
the rites of red passage
daubed upon its distempered face
take me to a place of safety
a womb where the pleasantries of child
may grow again until a strength
assured i may wander out
with charactar repaired
and positivity painted through my house
its bright passages of colour presaging dawn
its dawn preempting a glorious day of days
and raptured night when nightbirds sing
and nightjars hide beneath
the torn and tufted grass of moorish places
and smell greek palaces
dim silhouettes upon marine horizons