The Crimson Amalgam

Sanguis vitae, speculum noctis. Rosa mortis, numen et vortis. Sanguis vitae, speculum noctis. Ora pro nobis. Elisabeth. Cold lies the silver beneath the black veil. The glass is hungry, the sister is pale. She touches the frame where the serpent crests Twine, and drinks the first drop of the poison Divine. In the heart of the abbey where silence is Law, under arches of stone that the centuries gnaw, Walks a novice so pale with a rosary bound To the deepest recesses of the cold, frozen ground. Through the cupboards of prayer and the dust of The saints, she descends to the dark that no Candlelight taints, where the shadow of Báthory Silently gleams in the silver amalgam of mercury Dreams. There it stands in the dark. An obsidian frame. Whispering softly her forgotten name. For the glass does mirror the veil on her Head. It reflects the pale queen and the feast Of the dead. With a trembling finger, she touches The glass as the boundaries of time and mortality Pass. Just a scratch on her skin, just a Crimson drop spills, and a sudden voluptuous ecstasy Thrills. Through the veins of the convent, the Heresy flows as the seed of Erzsebet's damnation Regrows. Wash the sins in the basin of mercury Bright. Let the blood of the innocents swallow the Light. For the mirror demands not a prayer, But a scar. To awaken the ghost of the Carpathian Star. She has traded the cross for the iron-cold comb. And the temple of God is now Báthory's home. My skin is like marble, my youth is restored. I am no longer the slave of your dying Pale Lord. I bathe in the scarlet, I reign in the Dark. The glass has baptized me with Báthory's Mark. No prayers in the chapel, No tears in the cold. My youth is immortal, my hunger is old. Now the Mother Superior lies on the floor as The Sisters of Mercy cry out for some more. In the high-vaulted chambers where candles burn Blue, the communion is served with a dark crimson Hue. Gone the linen of saints, gone the vows Of the chaste. Only vanity, venom, and velvety Waste. She is brushing her hair with a comb Made of bone while the abbey is turning to Báthory's throne. I have watched as the altar was Painted in red, as the crown of the thorns Was replaced for the dead. Under Gothic arches, the sisters now sing to the Mirror that reigns as their savior and King. The glass is now clear, and the mercury sleeps, But deep in the vault, the young abbess still Weeps. No roses will bloom on this desolate Hill, where the thirst of Erzsebet is lingering Still. Just close your eyes. And look deep in the pane. She is waiting for you. In the shadow of Stain.