Poem: Nails of the Crucifix

She dangles my heart on a string,
plucks it,
plays with it.
Stretches the line taught,
then lets it slack again.
She is Secrecy like Nepthys,
The Egyptian Godess
of Night-Magick unashamed.
The darkest powers-female
were hers.
The ways to control a man.
For Her just a test, perhaps.
A dream, drawing,
or conscious sigil.

I bend to her time and again.
Sometimes out of Love,
sometimes out of loneliness,
sometimes, i wonder, as a puppet,
obeying it's Master.
By masochism,
through confusion,
repeated pains.
Together again.

My wits are not about me
with her.
Salome, and her seven veils.
Oh, yes.
She will have the head
of John the Baptist.
No matter what.

Though I Love her like Laudanum,
I know the Dark Secret;
She is just another person.
Like my last girlfriend.
Like my next girlfriend.
Like my Mother, like my Father,
like Me.
Like so many people I Love,
who don't get what they
want in Life.

Why grieve for her
more than the rest?
For the World is sadly
not all diamonds.
Do not blame me,
for the nails
of the Crucifix.