I am a part of the Gothic force, an army in a sense, but without the lust for violence for the sake of violence. My thrill comes in the saving of souls and the deliverance of physical and spiritual wholeness through arousal and art. The art of which I speak is the beauty inside the petals of a clover or on a mountain ash berry. Robins and hummingbirds and centipedes that slither and crawl over my skin as I read from ancient texts of the pagans who have erected statues of granite larger than any modern cephalic.

The badges I wear on my uniform are the ropes and vines that push from the impossible earth between mossy cracks in the vampires brow where my journey began. You see in my sophistication the emergence of a flare licking out like the tentacles of cytoplasmic sun ripping through the heavens to plant hysteria on the dysfunctional cities of the planet.

The blazer I wear protects me from oils and acids that are emitted from the tapestries of poison souls who attempt to startle the peace of my flock. The jacket across my breast is buttoned and blazes with firey buttons and clasps that tell of my need for protection and my need for armaments as I encounter the naysayers and energy polluters of my atmosphere.