This curdled, clotted, hopscotch cream, which sourly both dourly insinuates a treacherous thing
 
Of self-actualised gluttony, indeed
 
Turned a pretty, pretty picture painfully toward total and utter apprehensive heartache – for the each and every very next early-morning, earth-shattering, instantaneous images of
 
Complete classified aside privately fastidious imperfection, which tenderly attempts to ruin her once-upon-a-heavenly face
 
When way back beneath a crippled ol’ table the bulging weight of her own pulsating legs
Above her groundward, bound-down feet
Do be claustrophobically crumbling toward olden growths…
 
Spurts of – silly little baby steps per shy time amidst screaming, scheming veins
Never vain anymore of course, albeit – still overwhelmingly equals to
 
The heaviest heavenly creature known
To have quite possibly still walked
The weight both width of the whole wideawake-world
Very nearly Hers