You bring out the Morgan le Fay in me.

You bring out the Morgan le Fay in me.
The shapeshifting sorceress in me.
The scheming plotting megalomaniac in me.
The inherent paradox in me -
lover fighter virgin whore in me.
Morgan the Fate. Morgan the Wicked. Morgan to be feared.

You bring out the Morgan le Fay in me.
King Arthur’s saving grace in me.
Maybe I can save you, too,
if you journey to my Avalon.
Morgan the Healer. Morgan the Faerie. Morgan to be redeemed.

The Fate. The Wicked. The Feared.
The Healer. The Faerie. The Redeemed.

You bring out the blasphemy in me.
The pagan goddess in me,
the ancient and eternal magic in me,
the sacred tree and fairy lights in me,
the moss-covered pathway leading to the
misty moat of an Avalonian castle in me. 

You bring out the vixen in me.
The sexy siren seducer of knights in me.
The satin sheets and fur throws,
glasses of red wine and flickering candles in me.
The bedroom eyes and tousled curls tumbling down
milky-white breasts and perfect rose-petal nipples.
The stilettos and red pout and marabou and corsets in me.

You bring out the petty bitch in me.
The vengeful jealousy, I’ll-do-whatever-it-takes in me.

The hag casting spells on your lovers,
the minx who uses other men as tools.

Sorceress. Healer. Pagan goddess.
Vixen and minx.

Let me enchant you as only Morgan le Fay could.
Let me disappear into the night with you,
an exit as grand as our entrances.

But maybe it’s all smoke and mirrors.