Madam, never will you be dared to weaponize a hex into a blessing. Neither cockcrow
nor witching hands shall capture you wayfaring unpaved roads, or contriving shortcuts
through lethal thickets. Your temple, psyche, and soul bypassed famines of treasure,
solidarity, and pure-hearted witnesses. Doors—spaces narrowed upon detection of your
silhouette—remain unknown.
Ms., no summons for matchless devotion will ever solicit you. Those delicate shoulders
will not grow lopsided nor reek of fools’ tears. Imbecilic expectations of forsaking
yourself for collective preservation are divinely forfeited. None can footstool you for a
Lady, no searchlight nor torch can harass, probe, or denigrate you. Indeed, you are
exempt from the nettling why? A bridled tongue and bosom donned in the melanic veil
comprise a revolt that bedevils paupers and titans alike. Banal, self-certified X doctors
bankrupt of bronze pearls, let alone the crosses they adorn, can’t stalk you with impotent
hypotheses. The torture of brilliance crystallized in your throat only to be choked by a
noose camouflaged as a rainbow sleeps bottled on the bottom shelf of infinity. While you
thrive ever conscious, instead of lullabied to believe sincerity grenades stone pillars of
Darling, in lieu of vilification, your beauty is hallowed, free of liability. Those mesmeric
kinks evaded entanglement in societal sorcery, chemically subjugated history,
revolutionary seepage clogging their roots. Bestial chants will never haunt your temple;
neither will hounds invade that space. A null cadre of vile advances smolder in a yonder
pit. While the sadistic patriarchy gawks, riled, conquered, and bewildered, at immaculate
Beloved, the fringe is one tenant short. Blooms that giggle to defy drought festoon your
domicile. You rendezvous with the beatified under the gaze of chaperones who put
hungry lions to sleep.
For a womb barricaded by love of the scarred furious kind, spared you.

What are you looking for?