Venial she is in all different matters,
Where her verge is golden plastered to flatter thine human senses.
Veteran of suspenses,
Unnacustomed to kindness of words?
Believer in verbs?
Unavoidable to any common sensed man!!!
Knowledge giver beyond delinquents,
A true player of cants and cans,
Lover of strict demand!!!
Desirer to shake hands.
What unbalanced link canth I connect?
Is thy heart still wrecked for not having as thou needs?
From always having to bleed?
For you die another day!!!!

Put your fashions on display, for God's your only judge, you actress you!!!!
Substantial,
Your heart burnt sleeves are worn where the pain is scorn and qualm,
Where darkened sky's are the fringed and never blue,
Hybrid of god and man, for thou ways are noticed globally!!
Vocally you sound a hummingbird so high,
Harsh to thine self, best to everyone else,
You adventurer for troublesome ride!!!!!!

Tabby's cannot compete your wild child,
Where being stable is praised!!

Stadiums arth waiting your eyes to be impressed by you're plentified fruitful garden....

Shall I compare thee to a cradle bright?
Though what shine of diamond gold mighteth beg for comparison’s taste?
Such righteous jealousy fit mere for the maid in the wakest of thy maternality blue.
Thou art always abrighter.

Shall I compare thee to the taste of butter?
Thou art always a sweeter sight; sweeter taste; sweeter touch.
For what canth butter compare to thy winds salted?
Breezes of milk and honey which kisth my tired, loving eyes, as I bid away the sun?

Perhaps thou mightst be held to the mere earthworm? An extension of thy will.
Thy gentle hands. Gardeners of thy Eden. Greeners of the dead and brown.
Ye soft escorts of thy exhausted children; guiding to thy womb; reclaiming our empty vessels in careful embrace when cometh our arrival home.

Alas, continue in such delusional pittings with what fine conscious, I cannot.
If thou beest compared to these prior, thou beest compared to thyself.
Thyself that be butter, earthworm and sun.
Thy maternality to every mater vixitum, and every patron of thy leaf and sky.
Thyself that be peasants of the sand and soil.
That be the tyrants.
That be their toys.
Thou art seen in thy saltwater Saharas,
Felt in thy grass and thy stone,
Heard in the sparrow. In the flicker of a fire drenched in music and dance.
In stories of love and soul.

Shath none dare compare themselves to thee.
Thou art our Gaea. The Earth Mother. Ki.