Sandra Osborne


Drusilla sat by the sable satyr and stroked the hydra’s head.
Oh but oh that there be a siren to call upon me!
Oh but oh that I could beseech a thousand centaurs to march!
Oh but oh that I could speak a great sectarian soliloquy!

For thy mouth queneth my thirst for the sweetest nectar,
For thy heart is as just as the justly jousted,
For thy love is like the blood of ancient iniquity,
For thy lust is like the burning of a nebulae’s core,
For thy humility is prouder than the proudest pride,
For thy faith is greater than the greatest griffith,
And thy strength, so great, is my greatest invocation.

Thus I implore and extol thou from thy tempest,
Thus I plead upon the altar of truth's basilica,
Take me, Drusilla, to thy weathering heights!
Smother me with the breath of thy obelisk!
Grant me the wisdom that thy love endures me,

That thy love transcends the translucent Martian twilight,
That Phobos and Deimos will not forever run from the dawn,
That thou whilst once again dwell amongst the lowly lonelies,
That even through strugles and darkness and deepness,
Thou whilst shine thy purest opalescent shimmer upon my countenance,
And I whilst know my erstwhile rosita, that thou art untterly,
Undeniably, throughout eternity and death, my stalwart love.

Submitted: Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Edited: Tuesday, February 01, 2011
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