---

Only the head of the one she loved would do

Beheld in hands, her greatest gift

The face of the one whom she claimed

Her passion is the head of the prophet

Upon her bosom an altar to reside

Cradled between her gracious arms

Is the bleeding chalice of hers

Of which she drinks deep

To be complete in lieu of riches and treasures

This pinnacle of her desire

The forbidden dance of seven veils

Had proven to her a most burdensome need

Antipas could not know

What she had in mind

The greatest cup from which she sips

Is the head of her only grace

Her passion is a severed head

The one whom they call disciple

The object of herodias' hate

Supported by a platter of silver

The speechless head of her love

The death of a greater man

To hold such power of loss

Captivates her complete

To have and to hold

In her arms to her breast

She is the keeper of his mind

The unspeakable (unthinking) orb of the Baptist

Silenced forever of the blasphemic rumor

The greatest cup from which she sips

Is the head of her only grace...

Her passion is a severed head,

The object of herodias' hate

Supported by a platter of silver

Gazing into his eyes

With drenched hands and arms

She kisses away the red

From the stoic face of her passion

Castrated fully is her lover

To keep her body pure

To rid a mans desire

Only death can satisfy

Harvested from lust

And manipulation

Her fathers bargain held true

She holds all men in her palms