Born In A Burial Gown

Sibilant and macabre
Walpurgis sauntered in.
Skies litten with five-pointed stars,
the work of crafts surpassing sin.

As She graced Her window ledge,
an orphaned gypsy nymph.
This issue of the forest's bed,
skin flushed with sipped absinthe.

Her eyes revealed as Brocken's peak
tried once concealing Hell,
a snow white line of divine freaks
in riot where they fell.

The circus lurches in, a ring of promised delight
for seven days and seven festival nights.
What wicked wonders lie within the comfines
of the panther's den?

She watches from a maypole on the rip of Her tongue,
the restless spirit of Christmas to come.
A Gretel sick of merely sucking Her thumb
than gingerbread men.

Spawned scorned, abhorred by the aerial,
she was the light of the world going down.
War-torn, forlorn and malarial,
she was found born in a burial gown.

Unloosed the chain of her God-given cross,
seduced now pagan ribbons swathe her repose
in a carnival of souls sold and similarly lost.

Too many decades misfit and mislaid!
So innocent, a tender legend of prey
parades her second coming,
now they're running afraid!

Spawned scorned, abhorred by the aerial,
she was the light of the world going down.
War-torn, forlorn and malarial,
she was found born in a burial gown.

Now She moves with a predator's guile
beyond the firelit circle of life.
She soothes your cold heart for a while,
then matches its beat synching in with a knife.

She wrestles her dreams
with a delicate ease espied
by her cross on the wall.

And should she awake
through embrace or mistake,
she would take Jesus.
Blest foot forward and all!

Sibiliant and at last
the circus crawled away
with another lover in its arms,
dancing on her grave.

Born, born, born forlorn,
born in a burial gown.
She was born, born forlorn,
born in a burial gown.

Born in a burial gown!