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In Fighting The Demons Of What Might Have Been.
Bronwen Griffith’s coal dark eyes, flashed fire,
Like bright jewels set in new fallen snow,
Framed in a wild sea of crow dark hair.
I bathed in her laughter, a warm summer’s meadow.
With her voice, Welsh music, she wove her spell,
Entrancing, enticing, she bound my soul.
With a kiss, she took it and bade me farewell,
Leaving me, broken and no longer whole.
She who plays with the magic of love.
Lives in peril of losing her mind.
If you damage a soul, you shall suffer,
If you take one, you leave your own behind.
She took many souls, before mine and since,
Thirty years on, her spell unbroken.
Till I saw her again, out of chance.
Face ravaged by drink, broken, alone,
I took it all in, in one glance,
Her spell, so lifted, turned on the witch.
Who knowing me, head bowed, sought to flee.
With a quiet greeting, I finished the bitch.
Hi Bronwen, of all the people to see!
I pity her now, a drab, in a drab world,
Which I once had laid at her feet.
Her beauty, skin deep, was not deep enough,
To avoid the searching fingers of fate.
Which ravaged her,
Whilst her soul, her inner beauty,
Had died,
In fighting the demons of what might have been.
