The red hair haunts the women who've breathed it in
on the eve of strange symphonies,
women as they do, lay themselves out
against the fleshiest moments of midnight.
Men are often possessed of a forbidden white light,
yet woman breath the wild air deeply,
solidify themselves in too much silver
as though having drunken from spell books
and having lived terms of existential livelihood
far from the ever reaching eye of Christendom.
Women are religion.
The red air often akin to the ether,
circumstantial pomp, the incense
plume becomes a womb,
the whip, a song, and my
blood raged through the wildest
of women, intoxicated like priests
on the red air, gloating, aglow, women
wild in their serene entanglement,
the red air a chain they are known
to have lain at your feet.