“These Visions of Johanna have not taken my place.”
Crippled are the flowers she gifts me in vain.
Dead are the bodies they leave to my name.
Bled stars for meaning, cried fools for shame,
Screwed are the lewd ones for going insane.
Blessed are the martyrs for playing the game.
Blessed are the lovers for trampling the lame.
Weep for the children of innocence to blame.
Weep for the absent salvation of Cain.
Women of smoke and pillars of flame,
The quavering frame of her candle profane.
I hastened to flee but she came all the same.
The Stygian blade of my memory tamed.