The Artisans Whore

The Artisans Whore

Jezebel, young girl at ten
Watched her father sculpt molten glass
Her mother tamed the youngest ones
And along the lightning, time had passed

In the summer rains she stood silent,
Always a quiet child
As the inquisition taught her violence
Her family’s death most vile

Solemn, staring up and up
Boots, chainmail, plated amour,
The lecherous eyes,
Sinful sighs
Of her new, most terrifying owner

This man of god, this champion,
Debauched what innocence she had
A young child yet, the age of twelve
He said to her, “My god is glad,”

No privacy was she allowed,
Withdrawn inside her thoughts
Cloaked in kindness he corrupted her
And made her cold and hard

Upon the age of seventeen,
Her lusty owner traded her flesh for coin
And into the hands of the unknown
She was delivered from his loins

The new man said, “Be free! Be gone!”
But her eyes held terror of a greater unknown
And so he sighed, seeming resigned,
And took her into his home

“You will assist me,” he ordered brusquely
Striding towards a block of finest marble
With a marked hesitance she followed
And from then on evolved a marvel

In the months to come
This woman grown
Would fall in love
With her masters own

And in her assurance
He fell in turn
And the lovers rejoiced
After each piece of work

Renowned she was!
This striking beauty,
Exclusive to his art
Though offered princely sums,
They never did once part

The papacy,
Pope innocent
Took on a jealous rage
The most magnificent,
Most renowned whore
He never once did taste

He sought to buy her,
Sought to steal, to seduce, to tame,
But Jezebel rebelled against
This man who befouled Christ’s name

“What god!” she scoffed,
“Seeks to rule, through violence,
and the blood of innocence?”
“What god decrees me,
To sleep with his disciple?”
“What god kills masses,
Bring kings to kneel,
And denies each man
The divine right, to life,
To love, to freedom?”
“Who!? Where is your god,
Pope Innocent? Where is this holy being?
If he exists, as you say he does,
Have him strike me down,
And only then will I lay with you
In the crypt beneath the ground!”

So enraged by her rejection,
The pope did seek revenge,
And on a night most dour
Came events to seal her end

On the morrow she awakened
Whole, alive, and well,
But her lovely artisan,
Was never to wake,
from his cold and seeping spell.

Across the city
The mourning bells tolled
Called the hour nigh
And upon the dawn, the night gone long,
Ever mortal heard her cry

Broken down and desolate
She spoke her sorrow loud
Across the still air she sang
And called the people to a crowd

“Mea culpa, Mea culpa!”
She cried,
“What have I done, what have I wrought?”
“How may truth and beauty live,
When a corrupt pope gets what he sought?”
“When blood and gore and grime
Encrust upon Christ’s altar
And all the whore’s wicked slime
Birth dishonor, greed and slaughter.”
“When evil rules the guise of good
And oppresses beauty’s life
What end will come, what end is there
When love lives only in its strife?”

Rising from the bloody sheets
Of the man who taught her to be whole
She swore upon a vengeance,
And with a vile heart did go

“Pope innocent!” she called to him
“Man of god! I’ve seen the wickedness in my ways.”
“Come, lie with me, and you shall be pleased for days.”

In slimy, lecherous, gloating pride
He had her cleaned and dressed for him
Then found himself between her thighs
A man triumphant, yet again

And there in his restful slumber
Did she slit his wretched throat
A whore triumphant, in his bed
The killer of the pope.

And never once more would he know
The pleasure of the artisans whore