Mum plays a game of hide and seek!
A dangerous game of survival
Where she can not show she is weak,
Even though there’s blood on saliva.
She carries me to a safe house
to flee from an abusive spouse.

In her arms, I sense her despair
For we live in uncertainty.
Must this be the burden we bare?
Always running in urgency
to avoid mum being a battered wife.
Must this be the game of our life
When we play hide and seek!

(c) Jo Swan

There’s a House made of Ice
Haunted by sinful vice.
Wilting winter flowers
As frozen frost gate towers.
House is cold and empty
With no lustre of glee.

Lost in the fields of snow
Tears echo in sorrow.
Memories of trauma
Sneak behind like cobra.
House is inhumane
As relationships strain.

To those who reside there
Must be fully aware
There’s a secretive curse
In the House made of Ice.

(c) Jo Swan

It is time for her to drown
into the abyss of darkness.
An emotional breakdown;
The salty taste of bleakness.

She must swim across her
Sea of subconscious
And though her soul may stir,
I will fulfill my promise.
The darkness has deep depth.
Even in the dark, I’m here.
I’ll blow the breath of strength,
to face your inner fear.
So that you’ll reach the shore
And cherish me-
Your Saviour!

In the Shadow Valley;
Ferocious Black Crows strike
Like poisonous propaganda of Third *****.
They circle around:
Viciously striking Children at first sight-
Leaving their frail body with ****** wounds!

Black Crows nastily grin;
Children cry; tears of fright.
The Children’s spirit scarred with sinister sin.
What will become of them?
Innocence lost by this evil sickness.
They are discarded like infected phlegm.

Voice so powerless!
Black Crows pure victims;
The Children has tasted the world’s wickedness.
Darkness now stronger;
Lost in the wilderness of dark shadows,
Will cruel corruption of evil conquer?

In the dusky distance,
The rod and staff glimmers-
Black Crows tremble at the sight of its existence.
A fire torch shimmers-
Sparking hope; Children follow like sheep
To the mystical luminous sight.  

Though wounds may be deep,
Their soul shall heal with the Light.

I stare at the Kettle:
Reflection of your vile face.
Has left me in aghast!
Oh, how I wish to erase
Flashback of grotesque past.
Heart seared by the venom
Of disturbing memories
Caused by antagonism.
This rage can’t be appease
Mind becomes murderous.

The Kettle begins to hiss:
The soul simmers with wrath-
Insanely dangerous,
Hungry for a blood bath!
Oh, I wish for a knife
And stab you many times
As you left me in strife
From your abusive crimes.
Wounded me as a child
And left me powerless.

Boiling Kettle rattles:
My madness is wild
Have I lost my saneness?
Many years I’ve been irate-
Tolerating in silence-
Blood boils with sinful hate!
My spirit seeks the thrill
For an eye for an eye-
As it lust for your ****
And to see you die!

Gas sparks, Kitchen ignites:
Body burnt into ashes-
Soul seethes in resentment.
Revenge sweetly slashes
You to my contentment.
Hands stained with red blood
Like trenches of war mud.
Eyes consumed and blind -
Peace of heart now confined
By rapacious rage.

Mind is a Murderer!
Am I a Murderer!
Will I ever surrender?
Will I ever surrender
And taste tranquility?
Or is my spirit cursed?
Or is my spirit cursed
To be trapped by the thirst
Of the boiling kettle
That will never settle
Until vengeance scorches!

(c)Jo Swan 2018

In the new land we seek refuge
there is no war -
Am I free from my life’s deluge?
My spirit contains many scars.

Though we have found an oasis
I’ve been left in a depressed state-
Cursed to be born into chaos
Is this my bitter fate?

The past becomes a faded dream-
Memories of fear and terror
Is no longer what it seem.
Yet is my life any better?

Painful past I wish to forget;
Mind represses all memories!

(c) Jo Swan

Faraway from home and lost with the wild
the mystical fog has surrounded my sight
From seeing the road that lies ahead.
should I despair and sensed be in fright?
My predicament has left me in dread.

Fog slowly suffocates me from my breath.
In my anguish, I cry out to the Lord,
“This path could lead me to my imminent death!
I’ve no guts to walk through the forlorn fog.
Must I walk alone through gravel road and sward?”

Through the smoky fog, a Lyre Bird flutters-
fans his feathers in majestic manner
and sings sweetly like warm days of summer.
Has the lord listened and made his answer?
In the fog, the dusk of doubts dissipate.

Though I walk on this unforeseeable path,
My body burns with vitality of hope
as I've finally found faith in the fog