by Nick Gisburne
The vitals of the Vixen are unsealed
The jars, within a box, within a bag
With every precious artifact revealed
Her acolytes, the faithful, turn to gag
The relics of a killing, long ago
Did not survive the eons as they should
The filthy flux, a thick and foetid flow
Discourages the blessed Brotherhood
A sludge of rotten entrails slips away
Its loss, its life, no magic can renew
But here, at last, the head, without decay
Restores the faith, the power, they pursue
The crone, the queen, survivor of her crime
Returns to claim her throne, to conquer time
