Villains often come dressed as saints,
know this and act accordingly.
Leave neon arrows notched in signposts
for fellow travelers,
traversing the cosmos.

It is okay to be sad and sacred,
blooming out of spite,
so seekers know the difference
between gold and the lying
dust of pyrite.

I can tell, you’ve never knelt
by the crossroads at midnight,
or carried the dirt of a quarter-moon
home with you,
like the witches do.

You’ve never felt the goddess
whisper, “be victorious.”
Candle flames rolling in your eyes,
riding high on spells still glittering,
plucking astral imaginings
from the dark gems
to be replanted amongst the living.

I stopped praying to the sun,
stopped seeking the light.
I now dance,
sword sharp and heart high,
in the black pool dreams
of creations born
from Alexander McQueen.