Scarlet Passions

I stand in aged hallows embalmed with arcane ritual. Cloaked by the litany of darkness, I bide, Fatidically ordained through chrismal mysteries. The odour of votive essences haunts the claustral fringe And I am anointed with prescience. Vaults of leaded glass, like giant brethren to margent silhouettes, Leak stains of moonlight onto granite slabs. A paramental nave arcs, melanic, above me As I move toward the dimlit chancel, my silken skirts billowing aft. Their sable shadows are purfled by the hue of candles That glow from countless ambry reliquaries. Stone icons lurk there in chiseled suppliance To silently beckon for a heretic's penance.

Abruptly, my senses quicken and I clench the dark.
I hear the profane whisper of velvet, smell the pungence of ancient power.
You echo through me, wildly, as I spin, poised for flight.
But you are fast upon me, so banefully primal and keenly potent.
Caught in your gnarling embrace, I am lost, to be plundered and possessed.
My gown is rent by the altar I am splayed over,
Its vestments strewn in a wreck of delerium.
Your muttered cant snarls, molten, at my pulsing throat
While you seize and crush my savaged breasts.
Lurid eyes, 'neath lanks of musted hair, enslave me to eternal need.
I am your sacral font, my fervid body your oblation.
Now you claim me, tearing hungrily, feeding tirelessly.
And sanguine tears web virgin marble in unholy consecration.

Rising whorls fiercely roar a limbic requiem
As I gulp my last mortal breath,
Forever drenched by the epiphany of scarlet passions.

With thanks to Ms. Cinsearae S., editor of DARK GOTHIC magazine,
upon whose pages this poem first appeared. Published December 2004.

Copyright © 2004 by Dana Wakefield