by Nick Gisburne
The elixir is cold in my throat
And I dream of the sky as I float
Senses seamless and keen
Mind in harmony, clean
But I’m vomiting blood on my coat
Tiny windows where nobody sees
Broken doors with inscrutable keys
Is it prison or tomb?
Is this really my room?
Can I speak to the manager please?
It is torment he cannot avert
An unbearable blizzard of hurt
As he changes and grows
In this body he knows
He will never fit back in that shirt
Let us slaughter the slow and the weak
They will give us the serum we seek
Split the skull and the spine
Drink the fluids like wine
Though their toxins are bitter and bleak
See the bodies hung high in the trees
Watch them swing in the shivering breeze
They are signs of the scourge
Of the poisons we purge
There are none so unworthy as these
In the mirror I fear what I see
I am certain this cannot be me
Cold reflections of age
Disappointment and rage
This is not who I wanted to be
When he whispered the promise, she fled
But his flower she took to her bed
She was charmed by the rose
But together they froze
And he found her by candlelight, dead
Seven witches were quietly sitting
Roasting criminals, smoking and spitting
While they waited to eat
Slowly basting the meat
They were bingeing on Netflix and knitting
With her voodoo she turned him to stone
But the seeds of her downfall were sown
In his shirt was a ticket
She’d even helped pick it
The jackpot, if only she’d known
I have kicked the big bucket - deceased
I can’t wait for my funeral feast
In their droves they’ll attend
Come to mourn a good friend
Or it might be just me and the priest
