My head is caught
in the cat claw of death
and beaten
by the barbed-wire grip-
the black fear of the white horse.
The End, with all Her aches and moans, abstracts.
I am strung up,
harrowed, cramped, and racked
by Her routine voulge.
I can't fight Her in the murder-hole.
She is coming
and Her closed book keeps cold paranoia.
The spell has been cast upon every rat, priest, and mother.
I pine for my mother,
clean and canonized,
not to expire.
I fear her bright whites turning grey,
her empyrean eyes but a dry decay.
(Death is most certainly a woman)
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