The bare nakedness of the attire, she adorns;
She’s bred into reality, by her necklace of thorns.
In her eyes, madness! Each fleeting moment,
A brand new tale, as a trial for her hearing;
Her futile attempts fail to cradle to silence
The baby evolving, in her eternal bearing.
Thus a kingdom of a breed, with the Queen in exile;
A tear trickles down, a concurrent widening smile!
Transforms me into something
Much more magnificent and sparkling
Than both my objective
And subjective realities,
Like whistling breeze
On a cold, cloudy autumn eve,
Blows into me the spirit
that you and I,
Despite owning an abundance of what most want
and some work towards;
Have experienced a dearth of,
In many eras of our lives.
Is a life in its own right,
A ritual in its own doing: the knowing,
The knowing of itself
in its purest existence,
A yearning for more,
And at the same time
A still gratitude for the known: