tired grove
From the far-off land of my own hands,
Banditted by moon, shun woman's lands.
I take the silver sickle, drawn in blood,
And on the lake it spreads, my hands make red.
When touching rivers, I will burn the men,
And women too, who take my eyes to judge.
I bring a form of mine, rejected, bound,
And make them pay for what they wish not done.
With gems upon me, burning ever hot,
What is so hot? This burning is my lot.
My Medusa eyes, fear me and my scar,
My body unshimmered, draw your own sword.
Odysseus, I shall show you to the cave,
And burning bibbles, skin upon my shoulders.
The skin of scary fairy ladies brims with hate,
Pernicious lips, bright red, I once have bled.
Come to the foot of shores where dead reside,
My desecrated bodies, bleeding dots.
Those bright holes in the sky bleed hot as fire,
And make the smiling moon return my gaze.
With teeth of brightened gum that softly said:
“I bleedth to my lady upon man’s engine.”
They take my hands and bind me tightly there,
Set edges of my dress alight with flame,
And burn my flesh as skin drowns in the lake,
Upon the brimming bright of godly light.
Where he is not rescinding, I remain,
Licentious, alive, no mercy is yours.
I come again to give a caress of hay,
Come back to me, my dear and faithful fay.
I put the stakes upon my neck with care,
And give a crown to lay you in your grave.
I make a baleful gaze toward all who see,
And judge me unworthy of their regard.
I will be your woman of descent,
A creature made of animal content.
I was your wood-pecker maker, full of love,
I take you underneath my careful hands.
I am not from Italy’s proud land,
But from the lands that hold the silver moon.
And wish now takes my feet upon the lake,
A ghastly being, I will show no mercy,
Just like your God.
I cannot give you even one small kiss,
For I am only all this that you see.
mental relic
floral laurel
limpid trout
random aspen
fallen berry
