To Dance by Pagan Fire

In all,

you have been too polite

in the enduring of

your chains.


Your fiery soul

is now but an ember,

and he, slimy and bloated

with your life’s blood,

grins and swells

over the wound of your

exsanguinating heart.


No longer, dear sister,

can I stand beside you

in the tortured, screaming

silence that echoes

from your sobbing

throat in the

wee hours.


You will not lay claim

to who you are,

will not become

who you were meant

to be.


And so, dear sister, dearest self,

I leave this pristine statue

of your existence

in its cold and marbled hall,

its very stillness reflecting

the ebbing life

within you.


Not for me.

I will bathe in blood,

and sing lilting harmony to

the screaming souls

that dance around

my pagan fire.


I love them all,

but kill them always.


And when you decide

to step down from

the frozen pedestal on

which he lashes

the layers of your flesh, opens you to the flies

that feast on his corpulent manhood

and withered lust,


just take my hand.

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