The Transformation

Fortitude

 

Solitude

 

I remain free

my own lost saviour

a follower of no-one

sorcering a new novena.

 

 

Awakening

 

I still storms

in steadfast spirit

a respectable sinner

proclaiming the illicit.

 

 

Doubt

 

I demure uncertain

face reveals and veils

heart throes stone to flesh

keeping close my seven devils.

 

 

Fortitude

 

I am graced

with all virtues from history

my archetype immortalised

amidst this scripture of mystery.

 

 

 

© Katypoetess 2016

 

 

Storm of Silence

miranda-1916

As the indecorous breeze does billow

ebb and flow of his dreams,

swelling a deep desire

for her to return

within each tide

of hesitation.

 

As the unconscious ark of salvation,

sinks slow beneath his sleep,

drowning a deep desire

for her to return

he lies laconic

of malediction.

 

 

© Katypoetess 2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

Resurrection

Resurrection

His unravelling – of sacred shroud.

 

The suffocation of

her melancholic madness

by cloth of self-belief

blesses a new beginning.

 

The emancipation from

Poetess to temple Papess

his ruin miraculously raised

to unrepentant penitent.

 

The revealing complete

unveils fervent holiness,

his new bride of a Christ

in divine ambiguity.

 

His lost gospel – finally found.

 

© Katypoetess 2016

Forsaken

 

I search

for your soul

in every passing stranger’s face.

Knowing it is too late.

 

I dreamt

we met again

soothing all the pain between us.

The cruellest of dreams.

 

I crucify

time through mourning

yet it cannot hold back dawning,

of my emancipation.

 

© Katypoetess 2016

 

beata-beatrix_1863-70_

La Petite Mort of Creativity

Katy Vampire May16 small[1]

Let me bleed out a moment’s release,

from this contemptible inner peace.

 

my tears are too clear of midnight ink,

my thoughts are apathetic and indistinct.

 

I look for omens, cracks in bedroom mirrors,

for owls, magpies – among nests of unfamiliar

 

I churlishly spread my coquettish legs

seducing any passing stranger’s death.

 

To be touched – trembled by fingers of grief,

so I can weave a wanton poetic wreath

 

I call all gods to bring me a sultry storm,

traumas to ride wild into rhythm and form.

 

I hunger for blood of an illicit lover’s return

to break open my heart, leave me spurned,

filling this barren womb with words

that haven’t been born, read, or heard.

 

© Katypoetess 2016

 

 

Preaching

Preaching

 

 Acquire my peace within yourselves

 

She is nobody’s disciple,

a dither of image and noise,

amongst everybody’s daily causality.

 

No crowds will gather,

as she looks into the eyes,

that lie tied, and tired in front of her.

 

She is every colour

of skin, every age, every weather,

every obedience and whim, with no morality.

 

Dwelling in a magdala

of immortal solitude, amongst

houses of those who murmur against her.

 

Anointed teachings worn

that her saviour gave to her, more than all,

because, she – woman, was most worthy.

 

A heroine for faith

and faithless, contemplating salvation,

while drinking penitence from jar of alabaster.

 

She is subliminal free will

kissing thinning seperatedness

between determinism and uncertainty.

 

She is veiled opportunity

presenting itself, avoiding the past

that dances between resistance and surrender.

 

She is echoed resonance

of what might never have been

bestowing golden gifts of serendipity.

 

Staring at timeless stars,

loving with fear her own prophecy.

An outspoken, softly silent soothsayer.

 

Seven sacraments set,

yet no one hears her judgement,

that salvation lies in doing, not knowing.

 

But isolation is her myth.

All Gods and scientists roll dice,

 

and there is

no straight path

to paradise.

 

© Katypoetess 2016

 

*The Gospel of Mary Magdalene 4:1