ERIS

Nature loves to hide
Within the mortal coil
With the wrath of a woman
Who owes nothing,
To whom nothing is owed.

She spurns desire and

Delights as it incinerates 

The insides 

Of all men;

She demands no sacrifice,

No tribute

For what could she possibly need 

From the weak and pitiful?

She offers loyalty to none,

Her only devotion is destruction

In a land of fruit and brimstone

Vengeance sprouts 

Vine-ripened

And words are not spoken,

Chanted.

The Forge

First unmade
To be forged in fire
Remolded and reformed

Born again, ablaze
Baptized in flame

To emerge as something new
A weapon, a blade 

Perhaps a tool 
First unmade.