Merciel

Her shadow stands taller than me.
When I wander into it, night
consumes day. I become the prey
of undead dreams I couldn’t slay,
and she is their serpentine queen.
To dream her eyes piercing through me
turns me to stone, whets every bone
with hunger too well-known, but she
stands at such heights, she cannot see
little ol’ me, crushed by her feet
as I nip at her heel and plea
for healing. My sacrifice gained
nothing; every resurrection
brought second death, but my heartbeat
shall never resurrect. Now I
await Armageddon, praying
to see her on her knees before
her warrior king. Whether he strikes
with hand or scepter, either flood
she secretes will wash all my stains.
Solstice night will subside, the moon
will turn a new tide, revealing
shores I hadn’t traveled before.
In dawn’s infant light, I will find
the stone overturned, binding ropes
burnt, freedom from the cross, falling
onto my feet. King of myself,
even if I have nothing else.