Behind the Wicket

Lost ‘twixt
clacking and clicks,
bound, affixed,
behind the wicket,
slither and hiss,
lurking, the wicked
shudder in their bliss.

…and in the darkness,
they kiss, burning,
relentless.

A secret thing
passes between
servants and queen.

What heat does mayhem bring?

The fey thing,
trapped, unyielding,
by iron locks,
clasped fast,
scars as welding,

cold and colder,
encircled by prisons,
anon, the calendar shifts…

as tumblers click,
embrace the end,
at last,

it is unfurling.

Whilst the Queen of Hell,
the Mother of Mayhem,
exhales her hatred
in a waking breath,
she coughs, choking,
but, as yet, unbated.

In clawed fists
she grasps her
servants’ grips
in painful holdings,

gently pulled

from this prison,
her majesty,
Mayhem,
has come calling.


© CG Tenpenny, 2021.

I snapped this pic at Lowe Mill, in Huntsville, Alabama. It’s an amazing place! So many art studios.

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