The Dynamics of nspiration

Pale as the white breeze,
the eye cannot maketh this silent crease-
the unfathomable trough,
the exonertaing power,
the formidable zennith.

She is what maketh words,
and what maketh beauty.
She speaks, she reeks...

Oh! How she piques my curiousity!
How she delves into the penetralia of one!
Her tumidity, her bloatedness, her obesity,
cannot be seen, but she harbours.

how she dredges the nebulous truth of reality,
how she contests the implications of our fidelity.

The day she will succour our win,
is perhaps not prim.
She's a heretical anomaly,
she's a miscreant,
but she blows past,
like the wind,
and our triumph is secured.
and the pulchritude that protracts.

Out of a single her.

cuRRent...jer  ¶ 10:20 am