The Hierophant guards. He guards and feeds from pack of thieves
that are drawn forlorn to his treasures. To rule, to hold, to perfect –
he placates and facilitates pretty carousel that spins flinging their
demons against pillars of law and liberty. A conservative duality of
white knight and coyote - unmoving face of majestic monument that never
falls. He covets the treasure, thieves and carousel within this tempting tor.

 

Three miles away. None can rescue serendipity of a love, then misspent
on dark knight turned villain.  Unpicking vengeance that weaves nightly
into flaming curls, this made evil princess begs a haemorrhaging of
pleasure amongst un-plaited strands of Emperor’s rejection. Unwilling
to take heed, she lies buried alive at the crossroads of his invention.
Unhallowed - out of luck, she scribes desperate verse to bring retribution.

 

Across Adam’s ale, the Emperor thinks what he should think, feels what he
shouldn’t feel.  He who rules beyond their death makes maiden summise maybe
a double life is better than no life at all.  He adorns simulacrum cloak of scorn
that adjourns his heart.  It glitters, warming his Empress with placatory pleasures.
High Priestess rewrites history now they are apart, to determine the future’s
conciliatory past.  At every mirror he passes, he re-creates a new reflection.

 

An omen.  A posting.  Quite unplanned in ether distracts her wrong intentions.
Rolling over sleepy moat of the woodloes, this High Priestess of mourning
rides a midnight unicorn.  She spies drawbridge that raises her eyes like a pilgrim
to a new dawning. Trudging through suburban bailey towards trespassed tower,
the Hierophant sharpens his lance, softens his tongue.  She lays a fable at
his feet, woeful story of mythical creature that undressed and possessed her soul.

 

Exposing herself in the hiding, she unearths there’s more to life than
the pretence it creates.  He gently tethers her divinity to his bed, bending
the scripture through a lens instead. Facilitating compliance from defiance
he circles the remains of malleable body with sombre smile that masks twisted
torn ventricles secreting eternal bitterness. Veil of temple surrounds.
Extracting spear of fear and loss, she considers to rest without spite or danger.

 

He plays her faithful servant.  Using every melancholic finger, she suffers –
clings, feasting on relief from pain of longing.  Hand to mouth she banquets
on apples and pomegranates, exuberant on forever flowing wine of uncertainty. 
He slowly picks out dead red roses from wilted wreath. The lilies he adorns
her with are at first white with fright, then slowly blushing through to brightest blue
and scarlet hue, a sanguine pediment for newly captured, composite Magdalene.

She visits, and revisits sanctorum - bewitching him thro’ all four seasons in a day.
Scene set, he carries her grieving, selfish self deceiving and displeasing
when he leaves the room that inhabits her heart.  Emotions spill illusions and
delusions of a ghost that haunts her last. Feelings that squeal and shrill a bone
breaking crescent of healing. Scroll never leaves her climactic hand and inscribes
his back with savage sigil that you only love the person that you think they are.

 

Through brutal benediction he cleanses her of wholly reductionist sins. Sweet
incense teaches meaning to Emperor’s cruel, craven, oblique abandonment.
The Hierophant coerces her journey, he prepares adventure through serene
swordplay whilst she attempts to render his pillars to rubble. Sustaining power,
he defends vanishing point of romantic persistence in her reluctance. Both
pontificating tinderbox of natural justice, she peppers his introspection with poetry.

 

Twilight turns the card, rolls the dice into estranged triangle. His lycanthropy
lays awake, bearing course dark fur; he commits crime of passion between
tranquil thighs of her sleep. Duelling Emperor’s vampire with mystic incantations
of vital morality, he watches a trebuchet of resistance that flings insistence
into dreams of her past. Finally she stills and lets unruly decay unravel.
Awaking strangely renewed - dispelling the myths, she starts to write a truce.

 

Maybe the transformation is myth of translation. Did she change before
his eyes, or did his eyes change to free the ties of legend. The answer she
sought is that there is no answer. The truth she found is that there is no truth.
To fight for truth, strive to write is to suffer. ‘Tis better to be free than right.
As she creeps to unlock castle’s back gate, path that had narrowed after entrance
is now wider than before, whether Hierophant be saviour - or false prophet.

 

© Katypoetess 2014