Fanning out in the gale to beckon me onwards,
While errant strands rear up to strike with venom fangs.
Her lower half flickers to my tired, addled mind.
All at once she has the long legs of a goddess,
The hooves of a goat, the scaled length of a snake.
Her eyes are glass, seeing out. Never letting in.
She is my queen; my Hecate of the dark place,
Waking the devil so, at long last, I might see.
* * *
Folly. Bloodied knuckles sting. They itch and bother.
The haze ascends and fury, late my lonely field,
Has stranded me among these bleached and broken bones.
She lies prone, smiling, unwound in her iron skin,
Her hunger bred in the trail of devastation
Created by lost hours rampaging and red.
Ardor to be satiated at my own will,
And she is a wave that breaks on my jagged rocks.
You wake the devil, and the devil has to eat.
* * *
Morning, and memory is as blood matted furs
Wrapped around frosted flesh, all marked with open wounds,
That weep her warm poison down flanks and thighs and chest.
Her shell empty, shattered, and fickle, she has left,
To find some new iron maiden to occupy,
That she might walk upon the filthy earth again.
My hands, such as they are, will not wash clean enough,
Her stain; their stains are all over my copper skin,
And the waking devil will not fit in his box.
Follow me on Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/AdamWhitePoet