The Brainchild, Lover and Mother of Creativity



When she holds me, my mind she doth carry,
Wrapped around my brain, heart body and soul,
'Plucks at hidden strings with black garbed fingers,
She is ancient and spry, young and wise, Blest
am I

To have her near me, for I am in love,
Alas, I must share her perfection with
uncountable millions, more perhaps,
Than a man could possibly imagine,
Beauty:

Hers is unparalleled, but she can be
as ugly or hideous as any
one person can concieve,fathom, believe,
Dull, insightful, poetic, abrasive,
Wond'rous...

But she is dearly appreciated
by those she eas'ly and so oft seduce,
Penetrates the ears and shant be ignored,
Caressing the mind with her sharp and quick tounge,
Voiceless,

Sometimes without speaking, sometimes as shrill
as the whine of swine, though she can trill
like a dove, drone, beelike; all with ease,
Yet there are those that are oblivious,
Senseless,

Are their claims of her gratuitoussness,
For she hath impregnated minds with the
greatest of inspirations, and of the
most heinous of crimes; she is important,
utmost

And still greater ignorance lies with those
that would insult parts of her perfect form,
Her voice, hands, skill and entire regions
of her body, though a soul insulting
her whole

Is more than doubtful to say the least,
for she was born with the natality
of the first man to grace the earth though her
voice came a very short while later,
She has

Rolled among rocks, choired while feeling blue,
Lost some maturity having a scent,
remenescent of late adolescence
in a garage somewhere in seattle,
Hardened,

On an inexhaustable count of urban streets,
Has graced the Ancient of Days pages and
been recited in countless ways in
countless tounges, people prayed with her mor'n once,
Perfect...

she is,

joyous,

lovely,

mine and,

The Earth's,

Eternally.

- What is she? Who is she? ...think about it, send me your educated guesses, I may or may not tell ya in the future,