Myopic fad,
She's meant to feel for a man the love they never had,
Encumbering the lit sky she gazes softly,
as if a pry or a feeble cry,
Forthwith,
She senses religion  butchered and dry,
A loveless man with a lifeless gaze,
Jeopardizes her feminine craze,
In atonement of her birth,
She forces out if her a clay,
Her whims one with the wilting hay,
In this life is she to taste,
An unprecedented warmth or a love so chaste?,
Or lend her power,
So futile man can praise himself every hour.