In a sapphirine sky, where broken bone
Alarms the cooler hues of winter night,
The clouds unravel gauze and block the sight
Of triple visage: Maiden, Mother, Crone.
Deep in the wood, a haggard lunatic hunts,
But cannot see through forest canopy;
When dexter-clouds reveal the panoply
The sinister will move him when he grunts:
His willow flesh begins to stretch... It snaps
As muscles pumped with blood inflate upon
A bony frame, which grows and multiplies.
His clothes are ripped into pathetic scraps
As Mother's light reveals the path whereon
He howls until he breaks and falls and cries.
Adding your comment:
I always enjoyed it so when you and Rob would both reference the crone in your works. Lesser people might find it an offensive term, but that is only because they do not possess your impeccable heart and incredible quill, Julien. 
Wicked work!
