She holds the grass,

In feathered tatters, where life destroyed,

Electrostatic pulses slipping from her womb,

And that fire that glows with more than essence.

Angels behold! she is here,

Robed in the splendour of what they ask of her,

A message or a wisdom on the very wind,

Against the rockface

Forever clattering, a pretty line of warmth

That is held in the summertime

Or in conjunction with the horizon,

Whence power has a unison

With she alone, the risen woman,

Clutching miraculous light

To her tongue,

A lick of flame and filmy milk;

She is- self-contained, holds- the bridge

In bridled flesh, alike with sacredness.

A connection from the dust of stones,

Given towards a new life abounding,

To the shining chorus,

Her hand to them beckons;

They will reach the oracles by light feet,

Slipping through her mouth with prayers,

Ever building when she knows

She is their willing agent

And no man has led a better worship,

For she was bred that way:

To be a nurturing mother or

To be the bearer of wisdom,

Her body for no touch

But ghostly words, her vessel

The single route that they can burst from;

Where no senate can replicate,

That majesty of her being;

It is to her that stars fall,

And from their stardust pieces

She pulls flesh, the shells of men

Long generations gone and revived

By the chants of powerful healers,

Not of that name:

The woman to be scorned

For her bringing of existence.

She lives in liquid quiet, bubbling, amongst

The other purveyors of greatness,

Women who watch from up close,

Where laymen must behold her from afar,

For she is the change,

She is the ground itself in life,

Whilst her own is simply as a memory

Brought from the gods

To live in them;

She exists of all, priestess.

The End

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