He had flown down from the heavens
on a steed of bladed light
and did not love her; after three months
she cut her wrists on the mane of Pegasus
and went down into the woods.

They had teased her for her shyness
in the lands above the trees; they had
shunned her for her habits, wild unseemly things
they had left her for the ocean, so
she cut her wrists on Pegasus
and went down into the woods.

It takes more than a monster and
some cuffs, a stone-hewn chair, to
make swordcraft into marriage; to make
duties into friends. It takes more than
sharp-star Pegasus to save sacrificial souls
blade-mane tossing, stone hooves cracking
on the tree-trunks of the forest
where the crucified hang bleeding
swan-necks bruised, mouths black with poison
from the harsh words thought forgotten
that she never truly will.