Wytches

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?)

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.