She gazes into his distant thoughts
as the mane of her flames sway in his haste.
Captured by the silence of her victim-
She mourns his taste.
She etches into the depth of his soul-
the canvas on which he bled.
Stained with clots of fertility and war-
Emptiness has seared her sacred door.
Arise astarte in the crevice of his fear!
Delicate yet sinister, his frail mind
Smoke and mirrors- his concubine,
A sly lioness purrs him to sleep-
as she takes him into her hollow peace.
Emptiness soothes her- her shallow vacuum.
Astarte’s womb.
Every spore in her spirit unfolds its abyss
protective place- so wild and naive
tamed yet crude-
her vindictive solitude.
She gazes at the scars on his face-
like braille she feels their worth,
She reads the highs and lows-
She moans.
Rise Astarte in the crevice of his fear!
Delicate yet sinister, his frail mind adheres.
“Come” she whispers, “come to my protective place.”
As the mane of her flames sway in his haste.
She dances in his guilt- cunning pirouette
Talented in her craft – graceful arabesque.
Dancing in the crevice of his fear.
Tabula rasa- her silent grave-
Mother to all which deceives-
Seemingly innocent before her crescent horns appear-
Hidden in her moist chasm- a silent slave-
She drowns in the tone of his misbelief-
Saddened and displeased.
Emptiness soothes her- her shallow vacuum.
