Who is it, knocking on my door?
Breaking a rhythm into my dumbness,
filling my solitude with song?
A red light flashes, as I open the door,
and crawls inward, slowly, by the floor,
until, at last, like a painter's wall,
the stone foundation is set in blood,
and the golden rays of the waking sun
are replaced with cheerless night.
Who is it, entering my abode?
Enchanting with a simple sight,
a subtle smell, a softened sound?
A thread of needles slinks out her open mouth,
slithering like a serpent from the sea,
cutting through the air with silent bangs,
aiming for my hands, my feet, my head,
wrapping around my body, binding me
like Jupiter chaining Prometheus to the rock.
Who is it, locking me in an embrace?
Stewing me in honeyed Holy waters,
then sucking up the mess?
A thunderstorm erupts, as she bares her flesh,
and sweeps swiftly through the sky,
until, at last, the hand of God
reaches out, pulling forth from its cloud-quivers
lightning-darts, and strikes her into ash,
leaving me with nothing.