Stalking the Sullen Gods

She spurs me on Like a violent wind. She howls to me in the night Like a siren. Her light is red as blood. My flesh is cold as steel. Sweet dew is a nectar. She gathers it with teacups, Stirs it with a bent finger, Tastes the life-blood of earth, Singing silently in her mind. There is no need for sound. She reads to me patiently As to a child. I listen, and interrupt. Her voice is as piercing As a Bene Gesserit. I tremble with violence. Tomorrow we may dance together In the steely dawn. The shutters are down; The gowns flow all red and black. Surely some secret is at hand. I make my bed by morning. There is no sleeping there, Only turning like a storm, Kicking in the night, Wanting to seize the force, The everlasting. The aperture is open The glass is clear as day. I revel in in it . I soak and darken in my soul Like a sunspot. There is no need for singing. Praise be to almighty Thor Or whoever carries the club And hangs a tooth about his neck. They are one, those restless ones. They are not meek, nor tidy. Each day begins with them. Secretly as a cloud, Those forms appear, They evaporate again. Most useful is their image, They do not irritate the skin Or pulverize the mind. Frankly, it is beyond the pale What mortals fear and would revere. Beating a drum might drive away The awful dream Or call in reinforcements, Conjuring a pleading battle cry.