Walking through the forest, I find myself alone.
I rest my head in a bed of feathers made of snow.
On a scattered silken dress, spattered with fallen tears,
amidst a golden halo that his holy wrath did sear.
Whilst through the trees on the frigid breeze, the scent of lust (so cold and sickly)
I succumbed to the moonrise and the darkening skies spied a silhouette on the horizon, frozen, broken---divine.
From the whims of a seraphim (bereft of her winged grace)
one of nine, from the sacred vine that his holiness raised.
A narcissistic reflection, the thorn in God's own side.
His creation turned temptation and the apple of his eye.
A sigh of exhile from jealous lips escaped,
for even waning stars bent to their sway.
And at his command, (under a conducting hand)
the death-knells rang and the choir sang.
With Prometheus fire and bestial desire, he set their wings aflame and they fell---a celestial rain---and he carved his name on the funeral pyre.
For the dirge he played was a serenade of their descent from heaven to an earthly grave.
Met with wry grins, these heavenly temples of sin,
pined within the confines of lustrous skin.
The lecherous wolves bayed but numbered only eight.
For the one bereft, her heart was kept in the crosshairs of my heart.