For all the lofty words
of angels and bliss,
the aroma of your heat
and of singed wings
forms the halo, the beacon
calling forth the
demons
you seek to embrace
and purge.

Mine does not pull hair...
oh no.
Mine strokes to stoke
your flames;
forked tongue feathering down
between your
ivory pillars
thirsting for salted fluid
with a whiff of ocean.

You believe that because
I follow,
I am tame
and the baptism of
your holy water
extinguishes hell's fire.
The wolf, the bear
follow scents too,
in ancient
predatory
patience.