Ringletted Wight (Poem)

Ringletted Wight (Poem)


As regards my previous post about thinking that the living can need the dead, as well as vice versa, I think there are also times when relationships with those deceased to the earth are harmful. Not necessarily because the spirits in question are “evil” or malicious, but because they don't realise or care about their deleterious effects on those on earth they get involved with or/and because those receiving their presence can't beneficially handle the energies. I have experience of that. I think the best thing to do when you are feeling out of your depth in these situations is to retreat or get assistance, because there are some very dangerous places in The Cosmos. Ringletted Wight is a poem touching upon this. 


Ringletted Wight 


Oh Ringletted Wight 

I know you’re somewhere out there in the night 

I've sensed you hover past my window pane 

Beyond those black-out-curtains, sensed you drain, 

the atmosphere of light while you’re unseen! 

The raucuous wind enveloping your screams! 


Oh, Ringletted Wight 

The graveyard past this terraced row’s your home 

Since that day I saw that hearse tableaux,

and noticed your excitement, the keen glow,

of your eyes, so eager to catch mine,

I've ached to see your plight, your sad decline!


We talked that day

So eerily you spoke, as though of now, 

of your job as mourner on display

And yet you did half-know you weren’t enfleshed


Yet whilst I hurt

To see your sunken cheeks flushed fiery red

Your waxen pallor, form so painful thin 

The hectic’s froth damp on your temples waves,

long spaniel curls which coiled so lush and black -

so quick I caught your half-done plans to snare, 

my soul to your possession, so to keep,

your half-life fuelled, banished from despair,

with light of life's blood make yourself complete!


And so this night, 

like other nights before, of storm or calm,

I've closed thick curtains tight, sat up to read,

with barriers of mind, protective charms.


But more I hope, that next door’s pretty Belle,

who sleeps alone in sky-blue summer shift,

made latest style; her hair bright sunny blonde,

enwaving to white sheets past peach-like cheeks -

one ruffled strap, down by her nubile breast,

knows the danger close to us, or wears 

her daytime's crucifix 


__________________


(circa 2012)

One day, maybe on Tik Tok or You Tube or somewhere else, I will share the real experience which inspired this poem. If I ever get a spare twenty minutes to do so. Most of my spare moments go into my novel.










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