Wounded Lands: Virgin Poet

Virgin Poet

Her gown of curtains
A creamy sky over foreign country
Desired like Helen
Her body: an ancient battleground
From mother came child
Face to face, they were time’s mirror
From tower on isle
She sees her nemesis draw near

Your virgin poet
Your smith of tongue
Necromancy summoned
Through the archway… of the… setting sun

Her spidery jester
Who once wove lullabies in her cradle
Now ascends her tower
Serving her meals from the window
She plays her harp
Casting Scorpio shaped shadows
On the walls of his heart
Lovelocks hang from stain glass gallows

Your virgin poet
Your smith of tongue
Lies open and waiting
With yesterday’s… arrow… still strung

The field: bloody tilled
For the seeds of change to be planted
Cold obsidian eggs
Hatching foul serpents in her hands
Were the only reward
For surrendering to a mock confession
A fair face once adored
Skulks away through the evening procession

Your virgin poet
Your smith of tongue
Fugitive of his shadow
Beseeches you… for no… pardon

Repunzel’s ladder
Scalped and folded in a drawer
The ravenous clatter
The garden is bare but the chairs are full
Her belly now swollen
The bargain revealed at the water’s break
This want of golden
For every giving comes a take

Your virgin poet
Your smith of tongue
Echoing through the halls
A melody… that was… not sung


All the king’s forces
They have drown crossing her river
All his armed forces
Amputated, each one leaves her
The skull urn shattered
The mural of memory in shards
In Picasso mosaics
All her dungeons lose their guards

“Where is my prophet?” She asks
“Where is my damaged child?”
Inside this locket, unmasked
Devil sharp is your smile

Your virgin poet
Your smith of tongue
With his masterpiece
Double-edged… and twice… undone