She is not poetic.

Nothing about her is vain or exquisite.

She is not stained.

She expurgates her body with rainbow paint

But she is not holy.

She is not holy.

She is not sin but holy rollers

Are only the ghosts of her sepulchral body.

She is not visceral.

Her spine weaves inept dreams

But her soul of Fenris is not incessant.

She is not existent.

Her eyeballs are tattooed with the

Distant watch of impending doom

And her lungs are glued voiceless.

She is not poetic.