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Withdrawn inside her thoughts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