Naked before the mirror, her limbs bent in wilful
directions. She was a misshapen tree, bent
by a bomb blast in some forgotten war, misshapen
but surviving in the ruins of a bombed out town
in a ruined land with a name impossible to spell.
Like the victim of a witch’s spell one leg pointed
left, the other pointed right pulling her opposite
ways. Her life was a circle, a gravitational pull
to wayward rotation. Men caught by her centrifugal
spin queued in rotation to see her flicker matchstick
shadows on the bedroom ceiling, flickering
like the wings of a bird in a locked room.
The Purple Hermit 
A fantastic piece, Nikita. Vivid and dark magical allegory, working at many levels (and a great photograph).
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks Steve, so pleased you enjoyed it. Sometimes I wish my writing was a little less dark but it is what it is!
LikeLiked by 1 person
What I learned from writing classes was “Write from the heart and don’t hold back.” The apocalypse is still my writing favourite, and just letting out what’s there helps me.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Completely agree and I’m with you on the apocalypse! Can’t get enough of it!!
LikeLiked by 1 person