Bewitching a Beau
In covenant we pray,
for a beau's bright face.
seeking the finest gentleman's hand,
like a venomous drug in command,
frogs tails, fairy wings,
gather quickly while we sing,
eye of newt, wool of bats,
bouquet, four giant rats,
nightshade, nux oil,
loathingly tilled, muddy soil,
hurry, hurry godspeed,
fullest moon to be seen,
befittingly arranged, thine queen,
Burnished coals, blazing cauldron,
awakening, finally, from the doldrums,
theban alphanet, the wicca speak,
praying this enigmatic beau rises to his feet.
Remember when the sound of music,
on weekends, permeated the air,
sound of guitar strings, drunken laughter,
toasting glasses of fine whiskey.
Drink until the wee small hours,
ponder the meaning of life,
drown our sorrows, reminisce
til we were comfortably numb,
was just us and them.
Wish you were here,
our song back then,
transports to a different time,
unknown its significance.
Passed away quickly,
not five decades did you get,
my rock, my mate, my confidante,
words can’t describe nor express my pain.
Dear Beany, I miss you,
I think upon Ireland as a place,
Betroth with girls of pretty face.
I think upon Ireland of a misty hill,
Forests and woodland ever fill,
Of birds happy in their places,
Sharing with little pixies faces,
Green lush graceful lands,
As hopeful as any hobbits hand,
Of magic and stories lost in the glen,
Sprites devilish tiptoeing over men.
A land of perfect harmonious bliss,
Where pixies stop to kiss.
A land one can’t forget
For once imprinted upon the mind, it is forever set.
You should have been different,
peaceful and kind,
supportive and loving,
not violent and out of your mind.
Strangest thing is, the way we miss,
That life, we never had and pine for.
You never loved me and made it known,
neither you nor him could care less if I was gone.
Even now, I struggle within, the pain never leaves.
Can’t let anyone in. These issues unresolved, unhealed.
Somehow make you question how you feel.
Do you not think about what you did to me?
Or is it easier not to see the truth?
Narcissistic to the core, only you and I know more.
The games you played were indeed unfair.
Theatrical performances. Actors on a stage.
Relationships broken, tarnished, destroyed,
all for the image that was portrayed.
They don't understand why you would want to do such a thing.
He has everything he could ever want they say.
He has a family, a job and a great life they all surmise.
They don't know about the endless days and nights where he feels nothing.
They don't know what an effort it is to carry on.
They say, it's just for attention, that must be it.
Anything to justify what they think is not normal or right.
But it isn't. It's more than that. It's a darkness in his soul,
like a lead weight pulling him down, crushing him.
A realisation that it is never going to get better than this.
He struggles to get out of bed most days, a black cloud omnipresent.
Just a cry for attention they say. They don't say much when eventually he is found hanging by a thread.
She waited for him, hidden in the darkness.
The stark truth of what was to come.
A feeling of intensity permeated the air.
The floor boards creaked. His boots thumped over them.
Chilling and cold were his actions and there was no reason,
To believe tonight would be any different.
His hands were rough and cold, his breath was stale and pungent.
The smell of beer and cigarettes clung to his clothes.
She was used to it, it had always been the same.
Sometimes she prayed it would stop but redemption never came.