it is a new scene, a new vision, this dark ogre, covered in hair, claws grasping at my prayer. he is slowly shredding it. slowly tearing it.
as i sit with his image, i begin to notice the cave around him, the river flowing by him. Venus is behind him, looking over his shoulder.
Mercury hangs invisible somewhere in the air. we are here between the balance of the scales, here in this time of writing, in the expanse of libra.
the beast has torn apart the prayer and brought forth from it the golden pit within. it pulses there, a light in his hands. the rest has fallen to the floor.
with the lines go poor rhymes and ill attempts at metaphor. the thoughts are old now, faded attempts to bring forth sensuality, duality.
now, the simple arrangement of words feels sexist, ugly, naive. it is the bits of praise that have been cut away, pale shadows of reality.
but still, it is a prayer.
it is in its own way sacred, and so it takes a beast, an ogre to cut it down to size. to preserve what is truly worth mentioning. the rest, the rest is a flickered memory, an attempt to summon the muse to sing.