Her flower blooms: beyond the petals
lies the living Wisdom of Her body,
the life of the Rose; Her lips stained red
by wanton kisses and holy blood.
By the flame of Her lust did I know Her
as Mystery incarnate, and chased Her to ruin
to taste of Her dew, and be drunken.
Unto Her did I bear the Cross
as a lamb to a lioness; I did tremble
in the light of Her intoxication, 'til
She arched Her back like a bow of sinew
and notched my arrow into Her string,
firing me into the stooping starlight,
the bosom of the Queen of Heaven.
Her mons the sacrificial grounds,
the exhibition of the shameless harlot.
My Cross the altar of the Work,
my blood the seed of Life.
In the retort we join unto Death
and new genesis, pouring Self
and Self into the Self-less.