I’ve been casting you in lineaments, you vaporous thing.
You’re a distorted mirror that bends ‘round my mood. A cold surface of marble sublimity. I etch your cheekbones with my fingers, high and smooth. Two planes set flush beneath the eyes like me.
You, ageless woman,
The Queen Of The Abyss.
Pure inhuman ethereal wisp of my subconscious feathers wistfully the dream. Your fingers spread like spirit things that stroke the rhizome of the plasmasphere. And what shoots out from there’s a two-way mirror that looks on and in at once. “Allow it,” you say in your angelic way as fissures and cracks stripe wounds on me.
You’re a body-bind jinx, the lady sphinx that struts the brink of my reality.
You’re The Other—Another—who tethers and severs the filaments of dreams.
You’re The Queen Of Sleep. You’re a sleep seraph thing that murmurs words and charms to me.
“You look angry,” you say in your elegant way. “So I’m casting you to sleep.”
And then I see a molten mirror mage, that leans forward and melts over me. Is this sleep? Is it dreams? It’s a glance toward the ether, a swan dive plunge and black feather fringe.
You’re a liquid ice cold-cast authority.
“Don’t be afraid,” you say in your Draconian way. It’s not wrong to enjoy
It’s a long, long journey.
To apprentice The Queen Of The Abyss.
And when she crystalizes the drift of my subconscious mind.
I morph inside and slide and imitate the sharp edges of her words.
Unblunted thorns and venom sting and carve with swords and pointed things.
To scar and mark a new regime as a servant to