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Aug 17

Not stated
( though it’s understood )

she will not say a word

like dust
swept under a rug.


His anger

into the bruise
she wears upon her skin

a jewellery
of fear

written upon pale flesh
his hieroglyph of hatred.

Love’s lustre
tarnished from the first

the tattoo
of boot and fist.

Holds her hand
under the grill

until her eyes bulge
gulls screaming overhead.

The bilge
of his vile

vomiting insults
upon her scared face.

his screams in a rut

matching each word
to each rising fist

a blow by blow

He the liturgist
in the nightly rites

of violence
uglier than can be imagined.

Lilies cower
in a vase.

He the high priest
of her despair.

An **** bruise
upon her soul.

Her eyes now
null and void

slit wrists
upon polished table tops

in a room
now unlit.
Donall Dempsey
Written by
Donall Dempsey  Guildford
   BR Dragos
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