Author Information
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.
