It is you old crone
I see the shadows and dust
Once bright and bones
Once beauty, now brusque
Did you use an incantation
Or a pagan dance
Did you eat her emotions
Did you drink her romance
You mutter like the magpie
But it is her song
Not the bewitching of a magi
That enchantment fair and strong
With the vigor to inspirit
The kindling of a ruptured man
Gored by your Minotaur, with benefit
Of energy, though bereft of passion
Yet, I'm your huckleberry in this land
While frost has yet to come
So lift up your roots and take my hand
So we each might stare at the sun

I am the rock
Against which your dreams
Are dashed
You cannot be coy
With true succor
Yet, you cannot recoil
Every weathered crack
Is a nuance of abeyance
Keeping you awake
As you clutch
The infidel canards
That hollow our your fairyland
You will notice
They do not find
Wing with me
They merely leave
Their dragonfly pennons