Rising pheonix ashes found
all my walls smote and humbled.
Your spear, my ground, my sacred earth.
Was it always to come to this?
Was I always to be Helen in her Troy,
destined to one again a King's own toy?
Am I nothing more than this,
this aching in that pulls taut across my belly,
within which is a fertile field,
that quickens beneath you.
Mars is god of planting and of war,
God of holding and possession,
lord of taking and aggression.
Is this what I am, your conquest to destroy,
to crumble my sense of self and wrap my legs,
shivering cold in the night.
To cry I need you in my sightless sight.
Is this what I am to be, and nothing more?
But your tide expended and your woe be gone,
I see another face that is licked by coming
coming of another dawn.
Her rays impart the crags of your hardened face,
soft wrapped shadows in another place.
The stark plain of your cheek to compliment,
a rosy smile on your lips of dreams content.
As you came to me to wage bodies war,
now you are like lost mariner drift on to my