(The Hall of Mirrors.)  

Warm wormwood
whose fiery, pulsing blood
freezes the heart
Born of dust and glass, an illusion
A conjuror's trick
– the circle of marble
– the cowls and robes, so cliché
– the rape and imprisonment
and the inevitable longing for escape
from cycles of purpose, a haunting feeling
Clawing at the walls, a screaming jinni
tearing the flesh, ripping the skin
falling into distant, sketchy memories
and eventually into smoke
the illusion unchained

Beloved childe, so near at hand
Long, white fingers in your head
I comb your hair, I clasp the jaw
– to snap your neck
Burnished copper ringlets falling
Around a feline face
With tigress' eyes, a startling green
Against the marble mask 
Snowy skin, breath of frost
Teeth to rend, to pierce the flesh
China doll, epicene
Machine eyes staring, cruelly waiting
She laughs – 
She is beautiful, and she is forever