JEZEBEL.

She slips in through the cracks

of temples, of minds, of screens,

a shadow folding over itself

becoming many faces, none hers, all hers.

A whisper in the council chambers

where kings and pawns alike

bend, bend, bend

to the crooked rhythm of her laughter.

She paints desire on empty walls

turns loyalty into confusion,

love into a blade

and calls it devotion.

The waters once cleansed cannot drown her

she dances on the currents of what we refuse to name,

her fingers threading through the stories we tell ourselves,

the newsprint, the holy scripts, the mirrors.

Jezebel, she doesn't enter quietly

she enters as the question mark

in every statement,

the tremor behind every certainty,

the seduction of doubt wearing the skin

of someone you trusted.

She is old as sin’s first shadow,

a minion of Leviathan,

or perhaps Leviathan’s hand holding the reins

of hearts, of nations, of minds.

She wears your face at breakfast

your friend’s smile at lunch

your own reflection by night.

And yet we see her in glimpses,

like lightning in the corner of a window,

the echo of a laugh in an empty hallway,

the smell of smoke when the fire has gone out.

She thrives in what is hidden,

in what we choose not to name.

She does not forgive

She does not love

She only moves

a tide of illusions,

and we are swept whether we struggle or kneel.

Jezebel

in your face or in plain sight

the world tilts toward her

and we clutch our truths like stones

to throw, to defend,

to remember who we are

beneath the masks she forces us to wear.