New Moon

Oh Silent Torch,

The forth face

in darkness,

Stand upon the

crossroads,

Mighty Hecate,

Fooled they are

by your triadic

image,

I salute the four

of you.

Hail upon this night

of the Black One,

An eclipse of true

mystery,

Vengeance born,

In the name of Gabriel,

sung upon the stillness,

still,

silent,

A panther,

nightmare,

is upon him.

The most deadly curse,

is silent.

Treachery born,

now dead.

This threshold

between death and

rebirth,

This liminal gate,

Night of the Black Torch,

Full Moon-Shadow,

Let the blood flow

between velvet legs,

Oh Hecate,

for the Rites are Hers,

And the Priestess,

Serpents in the sky,

stands upon the Prominence

of Black Fire.

 

Proserpine

Can they not see

the darkness that surrounds you,

swept away, you were,

to another of your “Firsts”,

though unlike your first steps,

your first smile,

your first kiss,

you are thrust under

the arm of Hades,

struggling against the unseen walls

of Earthly fortress,

like Ophelia, drifting away

to nothing,

no longer a babe,

though they think you

a child still;

This threshold of

the unwilling bride,

wed we are to

the darkness of

transition,

never knowing the other side,

or if light will greet and restore us,

or leave us buried in a

cold hard grave,

I shudder for you,

at the sentiments

echoed

“these are the best years of your life,”

and

“you have everything ahead of you,”

and

“you have everything going for you,”

for though they see you as a child,

you rock and tremble at the

mountain and force building

within you,

yearning to be free,

not knowing where to run,

just run,

only,

alone is the only truth you know,

and solace flows as tears in the night,

silently,

not knowing why the dreams

that gave you comfort

died,

leaving only ashes in their wake.

You are lost in a sea

of familiar faces,

no one seeing you

as they smile as

they always have.

Not knowing that your

robot smile

only echoes their blindness,

as you walk the halls

as a ghost,

haunting your

child self,

not yet free,

not yet ready,

just

waiting.

For can they not see

that your pain is as real

as anyone’s?

Your darkness as

dark,

and frightening?

And though your mother’s voice

calls from the Earth above,

it gives no comfort,

for you are away,

not the child you were,

and

not yet the woman

you will become.

Never being warned

of the silent screams

of the blooming flowers.

Dwellers

How can they not see you,

transforming the shadows

into lairs of opaque

trepidation,

driving even the

crawling night creatures

into the light cast

from a lonely lamp,

patient, you wait,

all of you,

never needing time,

you have no use for it,

not making a sound

when others can’t see you

as they pass by,

nervously looking back

at nothing.