The body is an opus, a creation—
always meant to stand as affirmation
that the human form, and the feminine
kind way more, and albeit mortal, as time
sets to sculpt back into stone and dust,
was made to bear into the world
a face of a god or a goddess even.
Even where its gleam is marked
by an umbra, its canvas’ dark part,
where each bend and line or arc
ties us in a cosmic dragon’s folds
in whose grasp a pearl is, and the pearl
is a treasure, and the treasure—our heart,
and the heart—our soul’s lost memory.
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