these memories of Her message —
fields of battle without banners,
teeth sewn into sackcloth,
deserts full of abandoned ships filled with water.
pendulum-scythe dangling from the moon
swings back and forth within breaths
of a pawn’s eyeless head —
two times before, you’ve heard these things said,
once when you were the pawn, and once
when you were the pendulum.
drunken sprites in a hangman’s forest
dragging scarecrows off to die,
tossed into the river of faces and forms
where only blindfolded jesters dare swim.
Her message is a warning, and Her
warning is an initiation
to all who will hear it,
(but the warning is real,
and the danger profound,
and never let Her inconsistencies
fool you otherwise)
high atop the hill stands a madman
throwing fistfuls of ravens into the air,
fixing the dread hyena’s silver-dollar eyes with a stare
as his lead bones yearn
to outgrow his skin.