"Mirror, mirror on the wall

Shouldst not grave pleasures be my all?

For if I shall see thy Will be done

Grant Me the Witchcraft of thy tongue"



Three moondials froze in the shadow of six

As another soul passed to the grasping Styx

Clutching their trinket crucifix

Bats blew from caves in a dissonant surge

Omens of corruption from within the church

A fetid, dank oasis still clung to fool rebirth



Alone as a stone cold altar

The castle and its keep

Like faerytale dominion rose

A widow to the snow peaks

Wherein reclined the Countess

Limbs purring from the kill

Bathed in virgin white and like the night

Alive and young and unfulfilled



Was it the cry of a wolf

That broke the silver thread of enchanted thoughts?

Of Her life as a mere reflection

(As the moon's in narrow windows caught)

That opened like dark eyelids on

The sigh of the woods that the wind fell upon



Like a Siren weaving song

From the lilt of choirs choking

Where the vengeful dead

Belong...



To the Sorceress and Her charnel arts

She swept from ebon towers at the hour of Mars

'Neath a star-inwoven sky latticed by scars

To unbind knotted reins that kept in canter, despair

Shod on melancholy, fleet to sanctuary there,

In netherglades tethered where onyx idols stared



Was it the Kiss of the mist

That peopled the air with the prowess of absinthe?

Lost souls begging resurrection

From Gods upon their forest plinths

Whose epitaphs read of re-ascending to win

Remission from despair through a holocaust of sin



In a tongue hilted in invective rectums

Over signs and seals the sorceress prayed

To Death, to rend the slender veil

That Ancient Ones might rise again



As shadows swelled

The Countess fell

To masturbating with Her dagger

As the Witch gabbled spells

Cumming heavy roses all the way to Hell

As sudden thunder's grue harangue

Announced two pincered worlds



Exuding bane, something came

With the stench of necrophiled graves

To these clandestines

Who shrank from glimpsing horror

That the growls of mating ghouls inclined...



Resplendent

In pendants

(Natal trophies torn from bellies of desanctified nuns)

A demons, bewinged, bedight

In scum, prowled their circle seeking entry to run

An arctic tongue upon Her vulva

Where rubies smeared to alabaster thighs

Glittered like a contract in the purse of a whore

Receiving sole communion from the body of christ



"If blood is what thou carves, foul fiend

I will yield this witch to thee

If thou wouldst draw a veil for Me

O'er lengthening scars of age and grief"



As the Demon slavered foetid vows

And bore His prey away

In talons itching to perpetrate

The nausea of eternal rape

The Sorceress screaming in His grasp

Spat a final curse to stain

The Countess with the promise

That Her lord at war would be cruelly slain



And She would rot.

Alone

Insane.

On the twisted nails of faith