by Margaret Butterfield

Created on: October 01, 2010   Last Updated: October 15, 2010

This is a sensual death’s eve.

This burnt garden harkens back to Eve
And her choice of a face
That hesitated in the wake of the snake charm.
Baptize me with ecstasy, pain, with shell
And mortal sledge melts in fire
Leaving spirit, birthed from golden divine

Poplars. Its knowledge that I thought I’d divine
From that night, such holy Eve

Arabian nights setting, blue background, red fire

And no one showed their mask, their face.
I shouldn’t have taken the gun, become a shell
Of my former self with that vacant charm.

With this prayer, allowed my trinket charm
To become meaningless, especially in eyes of divine
Mercy. With the kickback of the gun and shock of shell
We began this night of silk scarf dances, the eve
of my undoing. I turned the arm to my face
Causing the echo of unholy fire.

And for a brief moment, I felt the crackling of Fire
But then was whispered away to clouds and charm
And I was shown the face.
The ever-escaping visage of Divine.
These snippets of newspaper bring my darkest eve
To those I will forget, but who don’t forget my shell.

That is my body, my body crafted of shell
Exoskeleton, which in the kiln of Heaven’s fire
One wintry blustered eve
He felt the need to instill a charm
Made flesh. My heart. He is nothing I can divine
not even at midnight, as I see His face

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