Mae West

You touch like silk resting on a virgins skin.

Floating through a photographers third eye

Your arms fracture through the turbulent air.

Resting gently on beautified eternity.

Those fingers fluctuate the earnest thoughts

Into unfamiliar purities.  

That only certify magnificence

Of bliss more lucid than infants sight.

Every strand of gold soothes these lost souls.

Gawking at precision finer than creation

Itself and all its unanswerable questions

Only known to unreachable personas.

Asphyxiated by brash individuals.

You levitate above walking luxury

Bought by insatiable idiosyncrasies.  

Fabricated like the grandest conspiracies.

A world shifting its balance for feet

Surrounded by broken glass goblets.

Self assured by there grand conceptions

Of themselves to be able to move mountains.

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