"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 eaves 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.