He removed the toque
and bowed his head,
shamefully,
as though every secret,
lie and misdeed were
engraved
upon his mottled cranial tablet;
‘the writing is on the bald,
auld Apache.’
I think she meant ‘alopecia’.
She exuded smoke,
he cowed, coughed and left,
painfully,
it was the first time she’d cut
him to the core, yet, deeper,
impaled
by barbed words from her palate,
a mouth aghast, appalled,
alas, he,
never intended to aggrieve her.
Words can be weaponry, inflicting damage lasting eons.
Words can be incendiary, turning cherubs into demons.
His body, indiscreet,
every scar, mark and blemish
obtained from this unwanted life,
were, classified documents; leaked,
Sorrow’s woodpecker had been peckish,
boring holes deep, into his desperate skin of strife.
The story finished in defeat,
soliloquy culled, forced to perish,
machete thrust, from tonguing knife,
made edgy points; too sharp for cheeks,
an empty vessel, bereft, unable to replenish,
no sleep, nor soul to keep, ‘This is the end’, spoke his eyes.
