The Mage

The lean and hooded mage poured out the vial:
its contents spilling salty crystals there,
upon the floor, scenting the too warm air,
with potent, musky odors like green bile.
Incanted runes, once heard across the Nile,
now filled the room like some demonic dare.
The mage let fall one lock of crimson hair
upon the pale and granulated pile.

The sanguine moon swung down in one long arc,
to scythe Cimmerian and boiling stars.
The mage took blood and scrawled a runic mark
on star-charts at the azimuth of Mars.
With one last daring spell he conjured her,
and there stood Helen, dripping sweat and myrrh.

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