She was a Bosch painting
Of mangled bodies deformed
And perverted into a nightmare
of her own screams
And
The meadows of Spring
Running through tall Indian grass
and daises and daffodils
And
A child of the Ether in skirts
Made of silver spider webs and butterfly wings

She was Hell itself anchored in
Despair and the flames of Demons
Rocked in the cradle of Doubt
Opened by a bloody knife
of her own wounds and scarred the same

She was a Poem of Light
And Smiles of soft shining fireflies,
Curls around an eternal face
Sparkled in diamonds and sunlight

She saved a life and killed a man
Ran full force across the world and
Dove off the cliffs unto the rocks
Unstoppable
Unbreathable
Unbearable

She searched for God
so she could punch Him
in the face,
Tear off His gowns to leave Him
Naked in His own blasphemy
of Creation
He Who created the Minotaur
As well as Theseus
Father of Evil, Tormentor of Souls

She wrote and Sang and Painted
She marched the stairs and
Laughed and cooked and baked
And Created her own music and Love
And
Still kept the unborn in jars
Fermented in the formaldehyde of
Alcohol underneath the floor

Until she became the Nightmare
Itself drowned alone in the vomit of her sins
And in the stream below the rocks her body broken
Where it can at last Sing out…
“So this is it? This is all ‘ya got?”

And she was all things

And she was nothing

And she wore boots so heavy
she could not leave the earth
her moans heard now only by Angels
who cry to God…our pain, her worth