The Maiden in the Labyrinth Cries for Isabelle

They will say that twilight slayed you, my dead Isabelle.
That the labyrinth coiled around you, my dying Isabelle.
That Theseus’s sword burned too hot for it’s bearer, Isabelle.
That Cronos caught up to you, my pyre enflamed Isabelle.
That all your armor rusted, my conniving Isabelle, that
the minotaur was jaded, my consumptive Isabelle, that van Eyck
painted you as an angel, my singing Isabelle. That the Lamb of
God was mighty, my martyr Isabelle. Are you knight or damsel?
My encrypted Isabelle. How many codes to hack you? My shrouded
Isabelle. Maybe our ancestors walked as one, my library Isabelle.
And Paradise was Lost and Found again, my godly Isabelle. Do you
know you haunt me, my demon Isabelle. And the years yawn on without
me, my butterfly Isabelle. The Carpathians are calling, my bridely
Isabelle. And Gav’riel’s trumpet bellows like an ox, my stately
Isabelle. Sammael’s venom grows sweet on me, my drowning Isabelle.
His heart is lost inside me, my slayer Isabelle. I am Cadmus’ dragon,
my darling Isabelle, and like Fafnir you must eat me, my lordly Isabelle.
No matter the bloodstains, don’t mind the screaming, my savior Isabelle.

I was only good for bleeding,
my keeper Isabelle.

Temple of Isis

Chalk it up to archangels, chalk it up to lore

flying from brim of dusk to dawn, warriors

mighty with seraphic fire and brows black

with soot, this is the end times, our blades are

troubadour bright and emanate with God’s light.

Oh Michael!  Oh Samael!  Oh Zadkiel! Oh Gabriel!

Spectrums in the looking glass in the Temple of Isis.

We can pay homage but we cannot stray, in this

midnight goddess mission, clear lakes reflecting

burning hair and armor of the End, flying rampant

through hellfire and brushflame.  We are death squadron

of Heaven, here at the helm of the War, I cast out

Satan, now he is fire retardant Lucifer, and Michael

waits long by the hearth side, bellyful of wine, mourning.

These vespertine fantasies come with a price: wear the

four rings, hail Jesus, we are but bread of the dead

and somnabulent wanderers, when we sleep, there we go.

Avast, plunderers, we raid twilight and take all we want.

Spoils of our Crusade, nothing can stand up to the Lord.

It is strange to be a stray angel, it is strange to be cast out

yet beauteous in my suffering, and this nightswimming is

unbridled passion, I can soar in dreams, plunge my sword

into the heart of the Damned, oh ghosts by the river, tell me

my name!  All I see is Saphael, reflection of El, a mercury

of Masonic lore, President of the Moon, and that is just

a mask, where Freemasons join arms and salute the quadrants.

Funny, I find shards of myself in literature and myths and strange

footnotes in grimoires.  What is my truth? What is my quest?

That is what Parzival asked, after all, but am I Grail Maiden,

Fisher Queen, or Pure Knight?  Where is my place in this story?

God, who am I?  I Am.  I am.  There are puzzles, and whispers,

and the trappings of lies that become truth, oh Yeshua, anointer!

Oh Temptation and roses and incense, what is the grit of my soul?

I am lost in pages of some heroic journey, but I have bills to pay,

and this Alice rabbit madman hole of Hell and Heaven and Hereafter

is better left to the Illuminati, so stop it with the clues, you two.

Green lion bleeding gold from the sun, whatever, Lapis Exillis shit.

Even in sleep I am on a pilgrimage.  My wings come

with a cost, after all!  Oh please, let me dream of

ducks in galoshes and underwear at work,

I get tired of conquering, I get tired of guns

ablazing and romance and loss and mythic

tithes, my head is full of starlight, and I

am just trying

to come

home.