behold ye, unsacred one

what was hidden,
what was gloved in velvet,
what was meant as
an irony of pleasure
will be completely undone.

your power is not power,
it can be bested;
your hold has no mastery
over a soul
already claimed
a woman named,
made
in the likeness
of a king.

and if you read the
writing on a body sanctified,
redeemed
it does not read
'she is mine';

it echoes the words
of the solemn troubadour,
a long ago wisdom
calling and affirming
love's design,
'i am my beloved's and he is mine.'

darkness, your call is light
and i say in the name of
the one who knows well
your end
and, in the same breath,
knows well
the scarlet robe that consecrates
a heart forgiven,
run;
for his authority and dominion
knows no boundary,
no emasculation,
and absolutely
no end.