O Poison Tree, O Poison Tree
Come take this apple outta me
O Poison Fruit, O Poison Fruit
You have left me destitute.
Samael comes to me as a black hold dread angel, the destroying Shaitan wreathed in asps and ruin. He has elegant, neck-breaking fingers, an iron cowl, and thick writhing locks of midnight hair that snake through my hands like serpents. He grins arcanely, and we banter, back and forth, as he the Tam Lin of my darkest imaginings keeps shifting forms from beast to man to nature to space like wicked fruit.
"You don't scare me, silly," I say, reaching into his nebulae to stroke the orb of starlight and dark matter within his mane of tentacles.
He moans, clutching pearly claws around me, and offers me a poison apple. "It is not my intention to scare - just tease a little," he says, tracing the divots in my skull, like train tracks over my brain.
