Chewing her sleeve,
Slumped in realism,
The hideous girl,
horrendous for the hysterical reaction
she eternally evokes when any being
Wilts over her like
The Sun she chases,
Numbs herself, seducing the forest; —
budding sensations, mingling, dancing,
switching degrees of posterity, traffic-light imperialism
All belong to her,
The will of paradise,
Chasing her death:
honeycomb silence, clock-towers
striking heritage in Immovable soil,
Equating perfection,
Spurring a glance,
A shiver of disgust; —
unformed, as naive as February,
she locks herself in an orphanage,
Perhaps, to breathe…
The caduceus womb
Marx the Sun as futile;
stethoscopes as absurd as memory
knock pebbles to foam and foam into concrete
And ostriches plaster the Sky,
Handing her infinity
As if she was to die; —
cacti depravity ensues, sickly correspondence
of an ostracised race; —
Bankers morph into fishermen,
The afterthought is golden,
Metals decompose imminently;
due to nothing, everything is despised,
the infant delicacy of being alive,
Bliss regained through exposure,
Her parents no longer pray for her
Nor are the vines still growing; —
shells, portals, the spineless Dawn
disintegrate reflection to romantic humour,
She notices herself once again,
Almost as if she had a body,
The gross trance of Flamingo idealism;
it was perfection neglected since the
last summer Dawn offered warmth,
Desiring wanderlust protection
She trusts the instability
Of Cancer regained; —
I have no sorrow for her, but her
sorrow alone is my gravity; —
Giggling, her soul caves in,
Leaving the stem of a pink rose,
Picked forever, as if she was to die.