I, Star, swing out the perihelions of my round.
A million streaming tendrils coruscate and bound
Into the sky. They would escape, but no. I hold
Them yet more firmly, crush them, back into the fold
They slump with laggard bodies, yet their writhing souls
Strain out. White, fear lapped eyes are rolled in knotted boles
Away. Ha. Come to me my little ones, I play.
Note: Originally published in Thelema Lodge Calendar, April 1994.