She tears through the woodland floor
Her breaths a frosty whisper to the night.
She strides, skin taught,
Cool marble, red satin and ancient oak Burning eyes
Wax candles. Her dress is on fire.
She was there, in that place
Where dust turned to galaxies.
She was there, under the ocean floor.
She is carried in every howling tear
In every snowflake and outstretched tongue
In shaking trembling loins and bitten thighs
In every newborn’s beating heart.
She was the one who painted the blood
On the wolf’s lips.
She aches to be seen
She yearns to move in shadows.
Her name has long been forgotten.
Her name is known by all.
Temple stones
Melted gold and scented oils
A chalice tumbled on the ground.
A lone oud plays out to desert skies.
Her name does not matter
Her name is sacred to the stars.
A tangle of branches, thorns and pine.
Caked in mud, glistening thirst
The forest calls her home.
She pierces her body upon raw bark
Coated in resin, lust, and nail.
She surrendered the day she was born.
Honey sandstorm eyes
Glistening black
A rumbling howl like a summer’s storm.
Death and resurrection.
Every tongue, every autumn breeze, every moonlit road Every constellation of eye and soul Entwined, enraptured, entranced.
Oh yes, she has many names.

And I pledge to taste them all.