"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 it's 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 ghouls 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.