Left behind are her residual ashes and a pleasant miasma
in which doused are enamoured men with superlative horizons
So much ashamed to confide their hypocrite visions...
Some find her divine ambrosia,others do blaspheme her
To some,she is a mother,for others,an estranged daughter
But they are naive enough to know who she really is...
She is a bloodless whore,kissing and loving each
Infidel,immoral and irreverent,what can she preach?
her sole intent is to satisfy anyone who dares a tryst..
A touchstone ov compassion,she soothes the ones we abhor
An epitome ov altruism,she burns herself for we desire,
A drive force,when she is with us on our lonely walkway...
At last,she has seeped through our veins into our bloodstream,
and our mind,heart and soul,she has conquered us like a dream
she is a need,her might can ever endure our archaic beliefs...
Yet we relish the sight ov her slow demise as she selfburns.
Honey,will we meet again? she leaves behind this question though
She is more than just a dry-leaves filled slender paper roll...
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