our Lady's
broken
her Lake a summer puddle midst the night Shamal
her eyes the color of the oblivion of the nocturnal
a hint of glitter -- ephemeral
be it her wearied silk garment
or her parched skin
(of which bards of ancient times
and antediluvian travellers sang for)
the world is a sad place now.
she once flowered
in the Attic of our minds by the waters of Tzion
the world was a greener place once.
she's not our Lady
who used to
blow/away/our/minds/conquer/our/dreams/embroiderer/of/fantasies
all i need to know is
do you enjoy your brunette doll
Time?
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