I stare into it as if its shape was purely concave and smooth as if carved by godly shrapnel I force it, feed it my soulful will Eyes and mouth wide Open for its message, its gift to me I see She is tall and her edges are soft In comparison She curves organically, silhouette flowing Pouring down dustily over a bony frame Flaring this way and that Dewy, Paisly, I wish she was unaware and cruxing upwards in some brilliant speechless energy Is this a self Is this a self Is this a self
