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What's Gone Will Not Come Back

by Jillian Spiridon 8 months ago in surreal poetry

There are blessings and there are curses—and sometimes there are both.

What's Gone Will Not Come Back
Photo by Bee Felten-Leidel on Unsplash

In a world bridged on the edge of sense,

where reality bent to a will and a way,

she knew best how to concoct spells

that could be shared or gifted or traded

like the best kind of wares for sale.

Sometimes she whispered nonsense

in the ears of bashful girls who sang

but rarely ever spoke beyond a word,

and she wished them siren's calls

that would make them bewitching indeed.

By Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash

It didn't matter that she was a witch,

at least in the ways that mattered,

because the women were her customers

who knew the Old ways better than

even their husbands could ever believe.

It wasn't often she received a request

from boys who were like their fathers

and didn't think much of fairy rings

or the rites of gods dead long ago.

But that didn't mean she wasn't willing

to try and break the molds they had known,

each one a binding that cut so tight

and ended up costing so very much.

By freestocks on Unsplash

One boy asked, "Will I fall in love?"—

and she had to hold her tongue

when she looked at his fate lines

spread across his palms like webs.

It was easy enough to look up

and smile so convincingly

as she lied, "You'll be so happy."

Because written across his hands

and the very stars above

she could see death looming.

By Monica Valls on Unsplash

The wind got her back for her lie,

as it pulled and tangled her hair,

like a lover's caress during a storm,

but it wouldn't be the first—

or even, heaven help her, the last—

but she was not bound by mortal law.

By summer's end, the boy was gone,

gored by a beast of the earth,

and the only love he had known

was his family's embrace in life

and their tears in his death.

And her last parting gift,

a rose on his burial mound,

wilted and decayed in moments—

a curse on her, the last of her line,

for knowing but saying nothing.

That was the last time anyone saw

the woman, that witch of the glade.

By John Royle on Unsplash

Did you enjoy this poem? If you'd like to read more poetry from me, feel free to check out my profile page for poems, short fiction, and more. You can also find me on Twitter if you'd like to discuss writing and craft. Last but not least, please leave a heart if you enjoyed this piece; any support is much appreciated.

surreal poetry

Jillian Spiridon

just another writer with too many cats

twitter: @jillianspiridon

email: [email protected]

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