She runs the purple corridors of an inexplicable tenor;
forgetting the voice--in connotation of the congealed, mushy-make and pith.
'Victoria, you're dancing inside the bag of veins,
that creep the blood crooked to my brain.

'Your living in there, you know?
Forever, for ever
and ever for the time past ever.

'Stay in there. You were born in there.
You will live in there. You will-
live in there.

'Lovely, your lips do mock and expedite this breath.
A succinct touch even joshes my lungs.'

Alone she is;
together the sinews of my center-piece and she
be.

Only ever has it been her,
only ever will it be her,
simply never will no other
be.