Captain Cur (England)
Holy Temple of Dread, Pirate Adventures (12)
Wandering steep paths, enraged with myself
allowing her spell to dissuade my mission,
chiseling with my sword defiling crypts
ordained by doom's guileless intuition.
I was exhausted; my men had all fled
endless lava caves mired in confusion.
I found a stalagmite rowed cathedral,
ice tipped stalactites glowing, diffusing
concentrated lines of flaming red coal
filtered through sun's immense ominous breath;
murderous scenes scorch Curdi's cavernous soul
drenched in the bloodletting rings of sunset.
An enthroned dense, flesh stained altar
rising amidst amphitheater halls;
iconic views of sacrificial slaughter
echoing refrains from death riddled walls.
Pagan gods perched on carved earthen ledges;
bare breasted women with undulating hips,
males exposing coarse muscled tendons
with scored eyes and affection starved lips;
towering tunnels, twilight permeating
the darkness, fossilized snarled tree roots clasped
in worship slithering like snakes squeezing
black acrid water defacing the past.
Scythian Priestess with flowing robes, spice
scented skin, fragrant, exotic, intertwined
and corrupted by the burnt smell of spent life
chaliced in the elixir of unblessed wine.
Directionless in a sea of tombs
premonitions reforming in my head
aroused by her mouth and sweet oiled perfume
I entered her holy temple of dread.
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