She, who walks in empty grace
trepidatious in her step
has gone, unfazed, to wear the face
to face a meeting with regret.
Escorted by the Seraphim,
her hosts that hold her spirit low—
dangling like a pendulum
touching not the earth, and swinging slow.
Ask her not where she must go
guarded by their splendor so.
She, who walks with certain fate
has never for a moment wept
as spirits, round her, congregate:
Her countenance has kept
Ritual, continue then,
Sacrosanct, her journey, lo.
The Lord watches devil’s Kith and Kin,
The Vicar asks we tell her so.
But ask her not where she must go
on moonlit nights when clouds hang low.
For where she walks, men young and old
speak of Vice and Virtue—of her role—
claiming thus, she works for gold
and not the good-ness of her soul.
A Modern Belle Dame sans Merci
who wears the faces that she must,
and will be the woman she must be
to be avoidant of their lust.
And know she walks, with grace, august,
having learned that Love, she cannot trust.