something i wrote last year

well rested, a type of ephemeral Sunday drifts under the leathered layer of her conscious.
and deep picked the stars from black skies; her unknown heavens.
radiant heat of the gods in flames.
the knife she brandishes a fine steel sting;
emboldened with the puncture it assumes.

grass-heavy, grown thick the ivy round her crown;
blessed in boundless infinities.
brazen mistress of divinities darkness.
wakes the hollowed sleeping of her song.