No Joy

Phil is not a nasty man, so it’s said, wrongly.

In truth, nay, lying, Phil is said just an ordinary man and a husband to Joy.

For Joy, only sad looks. Phil is suspicious.

With his long hairy arms around Joy’s waist,

folk got a sign that Phil, in just two ticks, can look as would a baboon.

“If I am to talk with my God, I’ll go with stains of your blood on my hands,” Phil growls, proclaiming his award of this girl’s skin and cunt.

No joy for this Joy, just faint pain of soul.

To this world Joy must bow, a microcosm hollow without kissing.

Allowing lust upon body, to talk with God and cry of pain and hurting.

“Is it at my soul you would just shrug at for its loss?” asks Joy.

“Is it my nadir which this community will talk of in hush, but actually shout nothing about?”

“Is it my blood you wish this monstrosity of a man to drip at your door?”

Crying is for Joy, in days of paining, and in days of dark.

Phil, it is said by many, is not a bad man.

But no truth is said by this many.

For words can always gloss over such shallow horror

and omit in angst, without effort, all joy.

The End

Brief #15 Like the Prose 2021: Lipogram

Copyright © 2021, Ray Hopkins, All Rights Reserved

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