My skin sheds. Limpid thimbles dropping in pools of mirror, my name is Temperance. Blood, touching it makes incense spread black and wide. Old reliefs are still breathing in treasure banks. To sift and wade in my dreams of algae and cyclopian weddings, do not run.

I tell my rosy cheeked girls, don’t leave the outhouse of Hades until those tendrils are clove hitched. 

To have Temperance is to have memory move through the body. it’s just a feeling of intuitive catharsis, anything else is dysecdysis.

When I feel vulnerable I do not waste small spaces. When I feel afraid I do not waste adrenaline. When I am Death I do not waste life. 

I make my serpent glow, for it is receptive in these moments! And I do make its flesh glow lagoon green; the color a Maiden blushes during her first fiend.