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

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