Isabel, swinging her weighty axe,
Smote the bloody head of a demon lord,
Separating flesh from bone.
Roaring defeat, the evil minion swore
There would be no further gore
Least it be of Isabel’s own.
“Kneel in defeat,” said she of ebon locks,
“for I can and well destroy thy flock,
The flocks of worshippers the world durst not condone.”
“Come, lover, and I will show you magicks
And charms made to turn thine axe,
In Hell there is no life without wounds sown.”
Whirling her double axe with a groan,
She struck, shattered bone of he who would call her his own,
Watching his severed head across the desert plains roam.
“And thus shall it ever be for me.
If no angel, then no devil be
The one I love. So much for thee my dove.”