The transcendence is not certain
For She whose senses run so deep
Taught to await the world's welcome
Into the cruel trough where He will harvest and reap.
Her sadness remains society's most shameless taboo
Which renders Her into its fringes
Gasping at delirious dogma concocted to dampen Her sacred spark
Upon which Her aching need for acceptance impinges
The madness of Her grief is for milksops shrieks His trope!
Ne’er it be expressed at desperation's altar for the envied
Where hearts rest inured to bored blindness
Pretending so long as to no longer truth's succour need
Their minds' eyes' prescience
Once unique and untouched, but by now fully scolded
Into oblivion by well-dressed ruffians' noise
Falsely branded as a most sought-after scroll unfolded.
Who deprived Her of Her greatest art
To war against the savaging of Her precious identity?
The power She knew instinctively whilst still small and unbent
Lifting Her shield against any lessening of Her unchecked intensity.
The trope of feminine madness within His despotic, trolling epithet
Relentlessly draped across Her power's tomb like a closed sunflower
Likewise can serve to obliquely conserve
Her patiently veiled, nascent and most defiant future hour.