Madonna of the Seven Veils

Her voice drips thunder.
Recoil, tender victim,
willing participant.

Her glory couched
irridescent.
She whispers a
blanket of stars.

I have turned her way,
felt her hot breath upon my neck.
Like a child, I shrank from her
glimmering eyes.

She only listens to your blood.

Terribilis est locus iste

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