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