No God, no devil, no light.
She’s an orphan in fields of grey.
Kierkegaard offers no hope or respite;
The Saviour, the Buddha, no joy of enlight
And death comes only her soul to forsake.

This is the child born of malice and spite.
No divine creation, no genetic mutation,
A fallacy of love, consecrated delight.

Her hollow soul longing to be filled:
A cavity feeding rapacious on love, lust and desire.
Nor Antony, Nor Caesar could placate her dire need,
Nor Osiris, nor Oberon, nor Trojan fire,
Nor Juno’s ire.

For the Romans still come and ransack your beauty,
Desecrate your idols.  The Templars bring mutiny.

And you walk through the streets trailing your shadow of grey
And your tears cannot fall on your pale, cold skin;
For they would assuage the sorrow of your soul,
Bring God, man, even Satan to sate your genetic un-whole.

But now, pale creature; nymph that walks in the ombre
Feeding off love and ether in empty, cold bars.

The great Roman generals lured and drawn in
By the gleam of your eyes, the flush of your skin,
The curve of a tress round a diamond-clad ear.
Unbeknownst on the threshold of darkness they stand,
Where your soul is ash, falling year by year
Through the sieve of time.

Hold onto your beauty, glorious child of no Lord
For that is all your sire could afford.