Bask

I’d rather be sat here amidst these smiling, stranger-faces,

Than back at home weeping over my long-lost graces.

 

Though I may be alone yet surrounded by the many,

I find comfort in the sound of them making merry.

 

The cavern in my stomach is muffled by their chatter,

Seemingly, my pain, here, doesn’t really matter.

 

I can bask in the glow of their happy exchanges,

And hope and wish that my own circumstance changes.

 

© K.N.Liddington

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The Man Of Misogyny

She was treading air,

a wide-eyed tourist of the world,

outlook positive and forecast fair.

She was a country girl.

 

He rode the wave of ego

setting a course for selfish stars

hanging on to entitlement, though

he was the baddest boy by far.

 

They met and he deftly crept

into her moonshine eyes,

in to her sapling heart and yet

he sought to rewrite the ledger with lies.

 

Mother was a harsh taskmaster.

The man of misogyny.

took his roots in disaster

from a young age, you see.

 

Her daddy had always been tough.

That’s how it’s supposed to be,

conditional love is love enough.

She wouldn’t know different, would she?

 

At first, it was living the lie:

the man of honour,

the man of light,

She was aglow. Her face a happy sigh.

 

Then came the slow unveilings:

he liked to shout and smash,

he liked to break things,

she would shiver at each crash.

 

Then there was that other one,

the twilight-night-time secret.

But that was back then and now she’s gone,

Besides she’d pushed him to it.

 

The man of selfish blindness.

Wanting to make her in his broken image

then wielding hurt and unkindness

to save being alone in misery’s cage.

 

The man of dark desires.

He liked to get in and break you down,

get in and start wildfires,

grinning under his Master’s crown.

 

She was still soft to the touch,

Still in too deep and hopeful

it would get better, it wouldn’t take much

for him to respect her and be faithful.

 

The man of misogyny.

He disregards communication,

she shuts up from fear of calamity.

He stews with resentful determination.

 

She grows cold, grows silent.

Tries harder, drinks harder.

In her liver, the toxic serpent

twists and takes her mind farther.

 

The man of mystery.

One night he doesn’t come home,

4 am she finally falls asleep.

He didn’t even phone.

 

The man of misogyny.

Ignores her requests

to check for a gas leak,

He said it’s all in her head.

 

The man of misogyny.

Would you know?

Well, he gets hungry

and she always cooks up a show.

 

What disastrous irony

that she died at the stove

of the man of misogyny.

 

He saw the debris,

cursed,

reversed,

and off he drove.

© K.N.Liddington

 

Whitewashed in blue

The room,

the room,

suddenly –

whitewashed in blue.

This… this came too soon!

But – I will,

I will,

return to you.

 

Whitewashed in blue

and still, I think of you,

feelings like walls stripped

and whitewashed in blue.

But – I will,

I will,

return to you.

 

The light floods my eyes

whitewashed in blue,

oh, so tender memories of you.

But – will I,

will I,

be returned to you?

 

                                             © K.N.Liddington