She marches Her sun scorched slaves with their heads low, sharply shaved heads, claw marks on their sore backs, a spine exposed, open hatchet wounds with hot maggots feeding on flesh to the precious bone. No sound, frightened eyes as the red blood flows, rosy angels perched within Her bloodred maples, rafts of red eyes and red glowing swords. Her red paradise of bleeding and bent flowers, the crimson clothed populace alive and breathing like lovely roses in Her rain garden, the cherry stone cathedrals and ripe fig pulp canals the color of a paper wasp, Her syrupy arteries celebrate the conquered and castrated, the defeated and the dead.
Plumes of bitter death smoke on the far away horizon, severed plum trees and burnt raspberry bushes, bright blisters atop the severed trees, a scent of Her wine and blushing perfume lingers, no pink tongues wag, none left to scream. The silent cheering and Her memories bleed into theirs, She spits blood on the acolytes, their arms raised, blessed are they for Her speckled crown and royal red crest, Her red rain and red ruby heart in the shape of a roaring red cross. Her sweet life, swelling stomach, She will sleep among the shadows and Saints, eternity on Her lips and lust in Her eyes.