The Twisted Nails Of Faith

"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 houls 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.