Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

She knows Wildruff won’t
Be back; he’s run out of luck.

Or she has if he’s messed with
Some other bitch, the fuck.

She sits looking out to where
He usually comes, his heavy

Tread over the tundra, his
Head lowered as if in thought,

Some small trinket bought or
Stolen gift brought, she’s often

Thought. She feels as she sits on
The edge of the floor by door,

The looming grief, the big dark
Hole of his death, or hers inside

If he’s met and shafted some
Other two-bit mother. She holds

Back the words she means to say
In case the wind carries them off

Like chaff and they lose their proper
Meaning in the air. She’ll sit and

Stare. Think on his good points, his
Occasional merit, his humour. She

Sees nothing but the landscape,
The trees, fields, birds, sky and

Clouds like dead men’s shrouds.
She knows he’ll not return, she’ll

Bed alone tonight, embrace her own
Poor self, kiss her own arms, miss

His deep words, his shafting, his lies,
His love, his hate; she wants him back,

The fuck, no such luck, too late, too late.

I love that painting....the poem is catchy...has lyrical wordplay that carries it along quite well....has a neo-beat feel !.............cool

Thank you, saw.