She’s naked, and pretty, … yet no one issued from the great pit can perceive her. Even those shadows roaming in front of their opened eyes, leaves them speechless, …they were born to endeavor as blind ones from here to the end of Eternity’s wages. Dazzled by nothing. Enamored of nothing. Dead to the spirits which surround our solitary tracks in the Ether.
No historical man is real. Let alone his concubines. Only the Ghost in the heart knows her. Beseeches the Royal Activity, which an innocent youth, boy or girl, would cling to, in all distress. In a City bewailing cavernous meaninglessness.
Naked and pretty. Silent between the behooved leaves. The trees of all colors, glistening.
Who would honor her? Which man can hold her in his bosom and yet without burning to a crisp, can gasp, maintaining his sanity, then embrace the red lips of Truth and continue existing to continually cherish living in a LIE?
In a body made by death from the start. Fallen from between two thighs!
Into the wet dust of numerical whimsies! Directed ‘neath the dark avenues constructed by Minos.
She’s naked and is the sole thing alive. This ontological essence who is weary from carrying crosses among human shells.