This is the Season of the Witch

The Gloating of the Townspeople

I walk along the pier
The fishermen are weeping
Slaves rattle their chains
The liberated hold their freedom aloft
The townspeople mock and gloat
They know now that I am not a witch
For I would not float
Time has not been kind to me

Once I set the night aflame
Once I was enigmatic and adored
And I rarely spent a night alone
And now I spend my days
Making dentures out of dead men’s teeth
And on everlasting nights I burrow beneath
Heavy and unwashed sheets

Every morning is a game
My wounds are worse than yours, I claim
By day I use my words as ammunition
I take aim and fire and the townspeople scatter
I push them to the periphery of my vision
And suddenly they cease to matter
And I lose myself momentarily

Addendum: Some people have difficulty with the idea that poet and speaker are not necessarily one and the same. In the above poem I have adopted a persona, just as an actor adopts a role. This is what I do in all my poetry. Please remember that.


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