XVII

The monument of a body against the black sky is power. 

It is worship, it is purified, it is against man, it is against the watchers. 

Endless, timeless, built to exist for nothing. 

The universal force rings in a shrill command, the strength fought through extremity, 

the struggle which is a blinding light, tearing a fissure through the density. 

Overthrown, left burning, bled dry. 

The vessel of an empowered prophet looms atop a pale quarry,
a halo of spit orbits swollen thighs. 

This is the queen of sweat and honey engulfed with sickness and wrath,

and with her small fists she leaves bruises on the face of the world.