The moths have began

To lay claim to this

White Polypheme,

A pale opus

Gentle and quiet.

This little beast

Is now diseased and beat

With soft kisses

From a fetishizing God.

She, the behemoth

Not yet ready to awaken,

Aches. The itching devours.

Mouth open, blackness stills

And the bruises pinch;

Madness stirs in its cauldron-eye.

Kill her, Kill her.

O hierophant, o traitor

How you tease.

Is this to be her religion?

Death loathes and takes her away

In white coats and wheelchairs.