poem 86 of a poem a day for 2012

the devil that details each empty cup

there is this witch 

in my room

who has no need to sweep 

or fly with a broom

she has a soul 

hooded like a Sun 

riding red

her hair burns

with a fire 

which is fed 

every child

who yearns to live 

without a fence 

or any stop

of motivation

to give

this poem is ultimately 

about salvation

the more I learn 

the less I know to

return my body's breath

to an eternal empty

should I strive to collect

or at least gather 

in my arms full of protect

as if some bastard Demeter

who never heeded where

the shafts of wheated light

were cut from,every

dark that I needed

here at the very edges

of what I do

without looking back 

or through

is where desire turns my spit

and I realize at last

the iron in my blood is it

this coursing in

each magnetic tide

each fickle fate

each free will

each sickle sate

and as such

I'm always much

too late for dinner

when I rush to find

 a journey's end

that's never 

supposed to stop

just bend

this here sinner

knows all too well

never go to bell

in the woods

alone without

an offering to

the Goddess

and her womb

that waits

to carry full 

and term

me past

every worn mask

and into

that beautiful

loom weave

of shine that

some of you

might still call

 Love's avail

EJR (c)