And it is braided with silk, but woven of plastic-
-materialistic; corrugated ridges on burnt iron legs.
But to the streets of suburban deforestation,
Her influential deciphering - infatuated - purged
Of seamless equations and reincarnated followers,
Abides by the diamond-bleach, the sultry circuits,
Poised in the foetal position for the last - yet first -
Time.

Her palms are calloused, stubbed fingers gripping the rim of her lavender skirt with an intrinsic meaning.
The perspiration forming a battalion beneath her hairless armpits does not retract for the thunderous cry of a man preaching on his extra-terrestrial pedestal.
Baby boys seek the comfort of their mother's womb as they splay their partially formed fingers, twitching nervously.
Baby girls kick out.
The grubby sweetheart inside the technological box filters the realistic surrealism into a myriad of dented pennies, clutching her de-stuffed, de-figured, de-monized bear in one filthy hand.
The other placed on the ever-increasing, ever-decreasing bump, where baby boy and girl wait.

She's too young for this, and you know it.

As she festered in the clotted ceremonial, it was clear that she -
Her, female, woman -
Was not what the bereaved father had expected, yet she was everything he intended to comprehend.
Voluptuous  body, arms outstretched to the nearest point - one foot in front of the other - she dwindled, mingled and, with the occasional sultry laugh, charmed.
Biting down on her crimson lips - the lips that dripped with the analysis of the night - she made her way -
Carefully, gracefully, seductively -
To the man with the iron fingernails, the father of the dead.
Offering sorrow in her words, solemn gestures with her hands, she gently stroked his cheek.
"Death is overrated. Life is understated."
She delicately filtered back to the women in the tight clothing, revealing succulent, perky *******, but hiding them just so that the father could not derive any more pleasure.
"Goodbye, my concubine. May God render your path."