And once upon a midnight pyre you saw her,
the mistress of Death, who courts the ravens,
who shelters the darkness, who eats the sun,
And look upon the gift she gave you,
a single sapphire rose, who wanted
none but to be treasured, which dirt had overcome.

And if she comes calling once more at night,
drunk on the pain of immortal reverence,
you will treasure henceforth the time, the skin,
when she meets at the lips your pleas of love
which you, in turn, provide the same,
as sickness, rot, worship rips you limb from limb. 

Fuck that.

There is a woman who works in a bar on a street with no name
who is no woman at all, but a ghost, a reverent,
a projection of your sick desires. She has kissed you
in a million little fleeting places like the brush of a knife
against skin, red welling against your lips. The taste of the bite. 

And yes, behold her, for she knows you,
and sees all of you, rosy and reckless,
a tragic gift upon the joy of yourself, and you know only pain. 

She writes you ballads like you can read them.
She speaks clearly in rhyme. You fucking hate her rhymes. 

And yes, your undoing has been slow and sensual
for within the will of woman rests cruelty true,
that which none earthly know to tame. 

You hold fast to principle, and to immortality.
In a sense, you are smarter than her – if one can be smarter than providence,
if in some sense, if it makes sense,
like coins falling from a fountain into the cavern of her mouth
in payment in platitude and in 

no fucking world. Will you cave to what she has offered.

If she wants you she’ll look you in the eye.
If she wants benediction she’ll touch your skin.
If she wants souls to barter she’ll give them to you to slaughter.
And she does. 

Countless souls, like little lambs, screaming and bickering lambs,
held to your chest in sacrifice –
this one for her, this one for her, this one for her –
for her fingers inside of you and her lips on your neck,
showing you what mankind’s knowledge tastes like, 

and what godkind holds over them.

There was a second deal, made just for you,
because you are death’s fucking favorite, because you give her what she wants;
she wants to know how shitty a woman can be if
given everything she ever wanted,
if given enough time. 

Raven hair and ruby lipstick, made just for you,
and tobacco smoke blown in your face:
kiss me, my Egyptian queen, and you’ll live forever,
and you believed her? Pathetic. 

And once upon a midnight pyre she held you,
the moon cresting in the hollows of your eyes
as the mistress waits, ever loving and true.
And light was the weight of the gift she gave you,
a feather in the sparkling swirl of time,
torn apart to molecule and all of it for you.