Alacrity is what she exudes,
a passion for greatness,

and she has it,
it,
sublimity,

too many distractions,
too much derision,
or she would already be so paramount,
a DaVinci with the brush,
or a Lagerfeld with the needle,

her beauty is Merovingian,
so humble it vamps me,
me,
a lucky man,
electrified by her words,
and waiting for her touch,