I Might Die Perchance Poem by Mark Heathcote

Her wedding gown is splayed out like a fan.
This deity isn't here to marry a mortal man.
This trumpet flower has an elixir-unsurpassed.
This goddess isn't here to marry just any sap.
Here's a bride as colourful as a rainbow.
Kneeling beneath a stained glass window
The answer isn't clear right now as to why she's here.
But the atmosphere is heady with her allure.
There's a sting to her venom, but that's not happening.
She's a hypnotising cobra. I might die, perchance.

First to last, last to first

Oh, I'm happier in these embers than I've ever been.
White ashes, ragged bones, and hard-tempered stones
Without any more foes for friends
Without any more souls, indelible black suns 
Oh, where do I begin—the touch of her skin?
Binding my hands, her love is chafing like iron chains.
But whatever the sentence, I'm as guilty as charged.
I'll take to the stand and weep.
Oh, whatever her veneer, I have faith in something.
Here is the real deal. And I'll pass first through the winner's post.

First to last, last to first
And off will come her wedding gown. Never to be worn again?