Saturday, December 22, 2012


Each year at Yule they gather ‘round,
orphan girls to try the crown.
Hands extend to see which one
will take the power, come undone,
be remade, another thing,
twisted body lengthening
grown large and full, ripe until
she’s fit to be the perfect tool,
a mate unto the Master made
whom every demon, angel, shade
shall fall before, fear, obey.

To the world the Chosen One
gives the morning and the sun –
but not the son, oh no, not He,
for ever shall she sterile be,
this the bargain and the price,
the child-bride, our sacrifice
for fragile peace.

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