Astride a tattered apishamore, the gossamer flesh of perception interflows with her own translucence
Harassed by the frenzied sycamores, as they gaure through contempt and dissonance
They blindly hurl their calumnies, rendering her angelic glow foredone
She bears in this chaos her harmony, smearing just running kohl into war paint
Emboldened by the vile loess, she detaches from the ignorant horde’s reality
And behind her petrous passivity, she’s deafened, but for the soughing at her breast
art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński