by Nick Gisburne
Her curse was never magic, not a spell.
No secret book of heresy was hers.
She did not summon sorcery from Hell,
Or smear a sacred shrine with heathen slurs.
She took, instead, a creature, just a man,
And placed a precious gift before his eyes,
An elegant, sophisticated plan
Of mystery, and promises, and lies.
With all her tangled trickery, her guile,
With powers he could never understand,
She tempted him, possessed him, with a smile,
Until he knelt, in awe, at her command.
And she, the poison priestess of her craft,
Saw nothing but a man, and simply laughed.
