By Wil C. Fry, Oct. 26, 2005, 20:27

Copyright 2005 by Wil C. Fry. All rights reserved.

It’s a dream
A fantasy
A whither-world that whips my imagination
Back-lit beauty
Dulling elves and fairies

She walks
Her steps are flower blossoms
She talks
Her voice a symphony

Rose in full blossom
Seems droopy, wilted
As She glides
Even Sol
Cannot compete
Drowned into dimness
Unadorned with unnecessities
She is bare
Yet complete
Eyes like shiny polished coal
Melt, shred, pulverize my soul
Stormy clouds fade
And lightning divides
Oceans gleam dimly
Next to Her
Even God takes sides
A blessing
To kill every curse
A prayer
To wake the dead

She walks
Her steps are feather light
She talks
Her voice a love song

Never has man beheld
Such beauty
Every queen must bow
Lions purr
Predators cowed by the sight
No pedestal is necessary
No throne needs She
Encompassing all
No more questions
She is the answer

She stands
And the world bows its head
She is silent
And there is nothing left to say

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