| Sibilant and macabre
|
| Wallpurgis sauntered in
|
| Skies litten with five-pointed stars
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| The work of crafts surpassing sin
|
| As She graced Her window ledge
|
| --An orphaned gypsy nymph
|
| This issue of the forest’s bed
|
| Skin flushed with sipped absinthe--
|
| Her eyes revealed, as Brocken’s peak
|
| Tried once concealing Hell
|
| A snow white line of divine freaks
|
| In riot, where they fell…
|
| The circus lurches in, a ring of promised delight
|
| For seven days and seven festival nights
|
| What wicked wonders lie within the confines
|
| Of the panther’s den
|
| She watches from a maypole, on the tip of Her tongue
|
| The restless spirit of a Christmas to come
|
| A Gretel sick of merely sucking Her thumb
|
| Of gingerbread men
|
| Spawned scorned, abhored by the aerial
|
| She was the light of the world going down
|
| War-torn, forlorn and malarial
|
| She was found
|
| Born in a burial gown
|
| Unloosed the chain of her God-given cross
|
| Seduced, now pagan ribbons swathe Her repose
|
| In a carnival of souls sold and similarly lost
|
| Too many decades misfit and mislaid
|
| In innocence, a tender legend of prey
|
| Parades Her second coming, now they’re running afraid
|
| Spawned scorned, abhored by the aerial
|
| She was the light of the world going down
|
| War-torn, forlorn and malarial
|
| She was found
|
| Born in a burial gown
|
| Now She moves with a predator’s guile
|
| Beyond the firelit circle of life
|
| She soothes your cold heart for a while
|
| Then matches it beat, sinking in with a knife
|
| She wrestles Her dreams with a delicate ease
|
| Espied by the cross on the wall
|
| And should she awake, through embrace or mistake
|
| She would take jesus
|
| Blest foot forward and all…
|
| Sibilant and at last
|
| The circus crawled away
|
| With another lover in it’s arms
|
| Dancing on Her grave… |