Tuesday, 30 November 2010


A woman;
A woman that cannot be mistaken for any other,
A woman;
A mother, sister, A wife,
A best friend,
And a lover.

Black hair flows from the top of her head,
Tears from the gods,
Cascading down over a glistening gem.
Upon her face;
A Sistine chapel of beauty,
Homer's The Odyssey her grace.
Intense and deeply intellectual,
This perfection can but only tempt a man;
Renounce his faith: Believe no longer,
As is said of The Dead Christ in the Tomb;
By Hans Holbein the Younger.

Felicity, inspiration, mirth and monad-ism,
Gifts she doth possess and radiate out,
These and more are still but a few;
Each day something new, to those -
To her devout.
A prescience to love,
Inflicting purpose to the soul,
No fight given against the prescription.
Betwixt a mother and the Madonna:
Blessed with a kiss of light from above.

A muse breathing soft music,
Into the heart and soul;
Candlelight flicker through window pane,
On a dreary, dark, and stormy night.
Against her bosom out of cold wind chill,
Kisses so soft, aeriform, and light,
As dogs bark at a moon beginning to wane.
Loves ethereal presence,
Ever living: Never ceasing,
Pure, perfect, never vain.

Two paradigms each depicting a perfect world,
To view is to suffer great affliction,
A man sees Heaven looking through the skies.
The paragon of a woman,
Life loses all meaning gazing into her eyes.
Aphrodite, Ishtar, Inanna,
Astarte, Isis, Venus and Freya,
As Hathor she fills the soul,
Through a motherly love she draws out;
Everlasting affinity,
Perfection personified she is saviour and slayer.
She is a woman.

A woman that cannot be mistaken for any other.
A Woman.
A mother, sister, a wife.
A best friend.
A lover.
A woman, perfect, unlike any other.

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