Red Ichor

Silver smoke trails from cracked, red-painted lips. Tears fall slowly into the lonely red basin. In her grasp. Upon the concrete. Memory of a dream fades to red thighs, two part ichor, and a red, erupting rose. It is thee who rest fiercely between realms...who pour from within their womb this godly spirit. Such is the greatest mystery of their kind: the grand purpose. Perhaps the wise and the wicked seek magic because they do not know it as thee own. The moon does not bleed after all, but yet weaves the cycles of life. Fire and ice dance between electric skin. Minds whirl black and red. He does not love her. He cannot. Only death creeps within her womb now, and sacrifice sleeps at the heart of her heavy breath. She knows as all the earth knows. To mist. To ash.