The Devil’s Queen

The mystic figurine in his cowl, ebony,
paid no heed to crackling witches, their cauldron
or flames dancing flamboyantly.
Chartreuse flesh, mahogany heart—witches’ destiny--
all have a part in witches’ and wizards’ history.

The figure—stronger, wiser—has risen from the pit.
Lucifer, the Devil, Prince of Darkness, Satan, Mon …
people paint him black, red, green though evil comes in ev’ry hue.
Like his deviation, maroon is more his spirit.
(Better not try mixing shades lest you come too near it.)
He has come to lay her, Night, though she is hardly fit.

Night dawned—a parquetry—diseased by human illness.
Paid no heed to where she laid, Night merely spun ‘round, on.
Syphilis, gonorrhea and AIDS she spread (he found).
Night pranced, ace of spades. To her Master would ne’er confess
that it was ‘she’ who laid ‘round town creating this mess.
Could Night make the Devil cry, die … like all the rest?

He saw her emerald green spit, sick, rosy, his Queen.
The earth split, Night went under as crimson ashes spawned,
crisped, her eerie, gown … which spewed orange hisses, fell down.
Cannibalized—except for brown eyes—she mewed purple, green
smoke. Melting in earth’s bowel, upchucked anew, she’s lean.
Disease-free, Night laid down, spread. Again, the Devil’s Queen!

copyright 2005 Sandra S. Corona