Poems

John Whitworth: Two Poems

The Castle  Come in. This is the place and I’m the king of it. Come in, and get yourselves into the swing of it. You’ll never want to leave and that’s the truth of it. In truth you never can, and that’s the thing of it.   The barren dotage and the wasted youth of it. The throbbing forehead and the aching tooth of it. You’ll never want to want and that’s the rub of it. The secret sorrow and the random ruth of it.   The Smiler’s bloody knife, the Giant’s club of it, The Satan sheen, the black…

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