Sunday, April 05, 2015

Collective Consciousness

She is the White Goddess, the Queen of Spades, the High Priestess.
The early female in the light floral dress.
The ageless portrait on canvas of a thousand births old,
With the face in the mirror carrying still baby fold.

She smokes like there is no tomorrow
Drowns in whiskey all her sorrow
-Mostly regrets- that night on the beach with some boy (denies the rest)
And flips 'less is more' into a convenient 'more or less'.

Naked dancing to loud music and forgetting to lock doors,
Leaving plates on the sink and postponing to sweep floors.
At her inaugural show she presents us her sore,
Cinderella ball pink spotted red, 'mess is more'.

Yet, she drows random lines that endorse all the world
A twenty year old augur at the spring of her word.
A high on dope Priestess, who is still growing breasts,
This blossoming woman, in whose bossom whys rest.

She is the heart of alive and still part of the whole,
The envoy of a rise and the precog of fall.
She transcends anytime through her 'id's' revolving door
And still throws nonchallantly cigarette ashes on the floor.

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