Sometimes after I've been sitting with her a while,
I swear she calls to me.
I am sprung off of her obscene beauty,
under the influence of her grandiose blues.
The crush of her might upon the anchored
cascades into the mist of syllables,
Her fawning noblemen hold their waivering arms out beckoning me.
She roars with tumultuous lust;
she for I, and I for her.
I don't know how much longer I can resist her request
that I fling myself from this loose soil
into her rapturous grasp
and allow her to envelope what remains.