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I yearn to touch those lips stained with mead;
To breathe the breath from the well of his soul.
His being pours into me; seeking secret places.
His beauty raw and vivid; colored by loss and sacrifice.
He is the key to every door I would leave closed and locked.
They are ripped from their hinges and I am led inside.
For his spear is the key that plunges through my defense.
Splintering all til nothing remains hidden.
He grips the key before me...
Back and forth it sways;
the cadence of rhythm inviting to Otherworlds.
The spear is raised and plunged;
through the gravemarker of myself.
I travel through this runestone full of secrets
shaped to fit the key that he alone holds;
marking with clarity the place of the dead.
For the dead do indeed dwell here.
Here lies my innocence, faith, and trust;
slaughtered upon an altar of my mistakes;
skewered by the spear of my Father.
Wotan, do not call the dead forth from the grave!
Do not chant the runes to raise the ghost before my trembling eyes!
Yet the runes are chanted and the wraith she does appear.
What did I expect to see color that ashen face?
Hate, rage, recrimination for my part in her brutal demise?
The dead girl before me... a shard of myself;
savagely torn away and laid to rest.
Father, must I acknowledge my guilt?
Why does no recrimination issue forth from the dead lips of innocence?
She is a shadow and memory of forgiveness...
Smoke that I cannot embrace.
A sweet and poisonous vapor that I cannot bear to breath.
Yet she has been raised
and I am at last forced to glare and gaze,
upon the lost and hollow...
nearly forgotten features of her face.
You have dragged me here to commune with the dead;
splintered the door to her dwelling and unearthed her bones;
summoned her spirit forth to shine in the blackness of my heart.
Understanding dawns in the light of darkness;
Yes...now I understand!
She is the ghost of innocence that must die to give birth to wisdom;
strength and fierceness born from the blood of her sacrifice.
The essence of her own being leading her to the altar;
Leading onward to slaughter.
Yet there is beauty in the sacrifice
as the blood colors raw and vivid marks upon my soul.
I have made so many sacrifices upon that altar
and will make so many more.
For you hold the keys to the land of the dead
and the power to conjure still.
I would drink from the well of wisdom of which you partook.
Stain my lips as yours are stained
and breathe from the breath of your being!
© 2005 Matilda Marks
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