Stricken

Wrapped in some linen appearing as drab; Beneath a saber of menace that constantly stabs. It’s a mother of vengeance with words spat from vile; It’s a thing of deceptions that has charmed and beguiled. A possessor of titles with a venomous charm But not a confessor of doings that harm. Surrounded by circles disguised by a maze; Seeing only reflections from a sight that is glazed In a cave with a fire its creator does watch; It’s a pleasure exquisite that flows from its crotch. Is it human or demon as for me I don’t know; But I know that I’ve heard it where ever I go.