The truth about Yody Petalengro

Yodi, your scent enrages me with violence.
Perfect skin glow and eyes so deep and lost.
Let me touch your brow a slight fingertip.
A beast i am hidden in undergrowth,
startled as you dance in sunlight ripples.
Goddess untouched my forehead grazed the brittle floor.
A Benediction to perfection my hands a thousand cuts.
I build a shrine within the twilight vegetation,
of sticks and stones and broken bones.
An altar of fantasy, of fouled deeds and fine.
Veins woven into tapestry a scissor nick like kiss.
Bewitched scent blown by danced wind my wrecked hand
shoved into ill fitted glove.
You dance into moted air jeweled toes scatter leaf mould
the glade alive with your laughter.
My hands grip the soil within the darkness as air disturbed
tendrils of heaven through bough and knot.
Hidden i am and yet yearn to burst through bush and hedge,
I am here, it is me, the world i offer to you!
A sullied hand outstretched touches a pearled nail as you dance,
and laugh and are gone.
The sun speckled earth is torn by rage and sorrow so imperfect.
The childish rage of beast denied this thing of beauty.
The small beasts laugh and titter disguised hilarity whispered
jokes in bole and hole.
“He who is imperfect, wrecked of arm, crooked jester, float foul smelled”
they giggle.
“Dragons i would fight for her” i whisper head bowed.
“Your own serpent wracked in dark holes” A squirrel mocks.
“A sword i would wield, brave and true” finger traced in dirt deeds heroic.
Laughter “a twig to beat the pigs home” they cry.
“Shakespear i would quote, love an awful labour….” Hand aloft i cry.
“With cracked tongue, grunting beast, awful platitudes, servile animal” They shout.
An acorn thrown, a stick to beat upon the spine, of tugged hair, of spiteful kick,
of mockery…. a voice.

A knight you would be to her locked in chalice, bound gagged and tarred silence, better a wrecked arm to bear a shield to defend her.
Better a beast to wield a sword in violence and face the bitter horde.
A face that will not turn from the ugliness of battle.
Three times the call of horns upon the field and three times the cutting edge sweeps
the fouled air.
A chance seldom offered to bright armoured brilliance, of stainless flag, of bright coloured standard.
Servitude offered or ignorance chosen.

My life offered for a smile, in a touch a thousand joys, a Goddess served, a Princess
of beauty unsurpassed.
No one will offer you violence.
I serve sharp bladed nightmare and you will wash in their blood.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s