The woman is perfected
She wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a her Greek-necessity.
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare feet seem to be saying,
“We have come so far,
Now it’s over.”
Each new-born being coiled,
Black auras, black all over
One at each little pitcher of milk,
Once empty,
They’re poured out
With enough knowledge
From where they were fitted.
She has folded it back
Into her body as petals
Of a rose close
Her desire, her dream
They’re all in hand!
When the garden stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats
Of the night flower
She’ll remain awake.
The stars shall utter her name
Staring from her hood of victory
She’s used to this sort of thing
But it’s the grandest as of now.
(3/21/14 @xirlleelang)
