Where are you?           (The Hierophant Reversed)

My little hands grasp at your wispiness
as you hurry away from me.
You! Incubi! You succubae,
You lap away at speech in sleep
and then ascend,
To flee from me?
Not bowed at my feet, not anymore,
not condensed in the shadows of my sign,
where are you?

Your spine was meant to bend,
Like a seat,
And make a good chair for me, my sweet,
where are you?
Not here, anymore,
not worshipping me;
the man with the jagged keys.
The man who waits

And rots,
on Gaia’s cancerous mounds
sitting in his very own coffin house.

Your hands were meant to clasp,
into mine,
and be my wooden arches, my sweet,
where are you?