She Battles Him

She battles him

when war is done,

and whether win or lose,

when her blood is high and hot,

she climbs

the mountains of his thighs,

heedless of wounds,

heedless of weapons,

And pulls him to

new heights of

painful ecstasy.

Lustful as any warrior

he’s ever faced,

and more deadly

for the love she bears,

his flesh is claimed

as a  trophy of

love’s war,

empty of seed,

but not of life.

 

Where Prayers Go to Die

Unheard, or unanswered?

Does it matter now?

Their prayers lifted high in tender faith,

were shattered by the godfist in derisive mockery.

 

The eyes close,

the grip weakens,

the sight fades,

and the breath grows shallow,

 

and they are free.

 

But the gods are not where they’re going

And the river is black and cold

 

They can have no vessel of silver

They’ll receive no provision of gold

 

And stone by stone,

the ghosts tear the walls

apart,

For they are a part

of nothing,

having become

everything.

 

Standing among the ruins,

 

they mourn their dreams,

and in the gathering light of dawn,

they dissipate once more

 

And the whispered susurration

of fervid entreaty once more

forms the misty morning veil

around the broken walls

where prayers go to

die.