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.

 

The Anger of The Dead

Are they haunted by

our deaths?

As we stand,

side by side,

surely they feel

the pressure

of all our

ghostly bodies.

We manage,

with all our might

and force,

thousands pressed

together,

a dripping sound,

that echoes

as if in a hall

behind their heads.

One looks up and seems to

wonder,

then returns to

the attentions

of the others.

And we’re left

to drip,

slowly,

drop by drop

in silence.

 

Shadow Spirit

I scare you,

you said.

Trembling,

but hiding it.

“I scare a lot

of people,”

I whispered,

nodding softly.

But, is it a

reflection of you

that frightens?

Like a mirror?

Or, is it the reason,

the voice,

the message,

the answer,

the future?

“I never knew a

voice could be

in my head,

and from you,

at the same time,”

you said.

“Then whose voice is it?”

I asked.

“Who are you again?”

you asked.

“I am you,” I answered.

“I am you.”

Holocaust of the Cherubim

Broken, you lay before me,

shattered limbs of plumpness, dimpled

with memory

of a time, innocent,

I am not sure how you,

winged creatures of Aphrodite,

armed and ready to inflict

the sting of Love’s bite,

became mired in our prescription

for you,

branded by our lust for

Love’s power,

snatching your quiver and bow

from your tiny grasp,

plucking the silken feathers

from your wings,

adorning ourselves,

like hollow birds of stone.

The sky, once filled

with glimpses of flittering

magic,

are now empty,

and though the fireflies

search for you on the summer nights,

they go home alone,

no longer lighting your paths,

no longer telling the world

your secrets.

If You Remember

Do you love me enough

to fight for me?

Oh man,

as your forefathers did,

carried away by

my Valkyries,

to sit on a throne

of heroism,

they died rather than

succumb

to the vile lie

of the One Son,

for they knew that

my body contains

many Suns,

but I am all.

Would you return to my ways?

Live your life in

harmonia?

Honor and Service

the mantle you wear?

Or do you seek comfort

in your enslavement,

do you hang your head

with the shame of your

cowardice,

pretending it is a prayer.

A true man knows

he is born to be a hero,

and his only way there

is his service to his Queen,

for to serve another man

is to be a pawn,

and to serve a god

is to be a slave,

but to serve a goddess

is to know what life is,

to feel her force in

everything,

and to die,

again and again,

as if thrust in the depths

of the woman he loves,

reborn to fight another day,

and live, glorious,

with joy.

Your Goddess Calls

Oh man, drink me,

like the luscious wine you swirl,

delicately sifting over searching tongue,

cherished in its crystal glass,

lovingly adored by you.

Call to me,

with your fiery loins,

for I do not forbid you this,

So that you may explode

your vision white,

the only sound you hear,

your panting,

With my name whispered,

as your hand caresses,

supple curves,

tender ports,

in which your horizons

expand,

Taste me, Man,

like the delicate morsels

your hunger craves,

for I nourish that which

resounds deep within you,

aching,

searching,

longing,

all the while I stand before you,

unrecognized,

forgotten,

I was always here,

it is you who left me,

secretly adoring me

with your probing senses,

seeking me,

forbidden,

but not by me,

by you,

Oh man,

forbidden,

yet calling,

you are,

forever yearning,

but I am here,

waiting,

for you to remember.

Savage Child

You can hear their echo screams

as the winds carry them,

beings, who will never roam

again, whose lives we

squandered,

selfishly,

failed stewards,

insanely playing

in the filth of our indulgence,

while our mother screams

behind the door,

beaten,

bruised,

her blood filling the water

as we, her abuser,

pin her down.

Every woman bears the mark

of her disregard,

her subjugation,

once exalted upon a throne

of our knowing,

worshipped for providing us

with life,

she drowns in the sea,

her blood spilling,

her children dying,

as we sit idle by,

afraid to see we are

killing her,

Our mother,

We, Her children,

savagely.

When we could love her,

care for her,

but we are too important,

though would not exist,

without her,

no, we are too important,

though will not exist,

without her.

And when they say

there’s still time,

they are lying,

failed species,

because there is still time for her,

but there is no time

for the ego of mankind

which consumes us all.