Midnight Prophecy (Pagan Hands)

The midnight prophecy fills us

Alongside wild wormwood's warmth

Astride bitter tongued orange blossoms

The promise of liquorice

Bites, still, my lips it's musk

Inhibitions nonplussed

Peace sets upon sweat-softened palms

Pagan hands part palisades

Loping through, to valley's refuge

Which cradles clandestine hearth

That belies zephyr's songs

Bemoaning 'Johns' long gone

Worry not, for the hawk sees naught

But the plumes of its own breast

Butcher's-hook beak bending inward;

For what secrets does it seek

On branch aft iced tussock

With it's grisly grip taut?

Slippery, drooling, snowy lips

Whisper silent, empty threats

Drowning in gurgled foretelling

Of a Sapphic spring soireé

Birthed by icicle tips

Grown from throne which hawk sits