Brimstone smoke
curls around the yoke
that holds an elder god,
immobile,
entombed.
Rage and shudder, she
burns with hate, seething,
at the gall of the king
who knotted the yoke’s rope.
Golden threads, hand-woven
by the maker, glowing red,
they bite into her lip,
as she pulls her bloody
head from the hole.
She is death
and she is free
to rightly reap
the wide swath
of her harvest,
where it grows…
but, today,
she will be content
to lick the blood from her lips
and become the Wolf
that hunts
a king’s soul.
She is the judge
and she will deal justice
in the halls
where her fangs meet bone.
©️ 2020.
