Wytches
"Trap him in a tree"
said it,
said she,
the hiss-embodied voice,
banshee.
A potion flew
through air cold
as ice sharper
than a kiss-blade
knife.
Green it landed,
soothed the flesh though
fears turned churning,
burning mesh;
its sigil
carving deep
through meat,
a ritual mark,
its
work complete.
These words are not mine.
(Were they ever?)
(Were they ever?)
They came unbidden
of their own accord,
entranced into a world outside
the regular absurd.
This night
"our work is done"
say they, and l
eave me to sway,
dizzy at the fade
of a memory
of what has been.
A spell upon me
cast by looking, at
art on my screen
from a place I have been.
The art is not mine
either, it comes
from the pen
of Mark Simpson,
better known as Jock
for the script of Scott Snyder:
the Wytches.
I have not as yet
insomuch as
opened the book.
But given,
I have to.
UPDATE 13.12.17
it arrived
a week ago
by post.
as yet
i have not dared
to look inside.
