Nasty woman.
Mean spirited old bird.
She knew she was
evil
and she tried
to contain
her corrosive
spirit,
blanketed in
righteous robes
of recycled plastic number seven,
which frayed at all the visible edges.
Rough is not equal
to sharp.
For the safety of
her loved ones
she played Nice,
but her costume
did not fit
anymore.
She was swollen, frumpy
in her misery, her resentments
festered like puss,
she reeked of infection
and abhored the
good scents
like innocence.
The green oozes out
leaving a slimy stain
where she once stood
her ground,
she makes it sound
like she is stuck
in her own trap.
A trap is a trap
when open.
Witches always walk
high and mighty
as if they were born
for power,
mistaking strength
for malice.
Weight was all she could do
well,
I found myself
standing over her
well,
peering down
into the depths of her
Hell
which widens like a
sinkhole
swallowing all solid ground
and livlihood in her
proximity.
My nose shrinks.
It smells rotten.
Literally,
those that profess they possess;
intelligence,
honesty and tidiness
are ignorant of the obviously sloppy lies
they leave everywhere
like litter-
who left this here?
There is a fine left to pay.
It will be collected,
any-witch-way.
Lastly,
How in Hell
does she sleep?
Champagne and
Mexican pills.
Her flute overfills
bubbling over
the limit.
Artwork by George Romney, 'Tom Hayley' in Public Domain (date unknown).
