To my keen eye to languid misery,
The dreadful ravishing webby god of
Staggering misfortune injured coarsely
Her immaculate pantheist heart, her grass frost peevish lip,
Took for under swarming rash pain in her serpent throat,
How coarse words awoke,
Such mourning weeping mornings clapped to the starlight parapet
Hailed aloft her cries.
She utterly halted to death,
A prelate angel sternly cleaned like loathe the word.
Instead vast melancholy arrived like tide slapping the rocky temple,
Ebbing away her opaque illusive mediocre foam
To well knit sunlit future happy like spleen.
Soon him, a homeless drifting black butterfly,
Dancing around to bypassing deities.
Abroad fatuous of sadness obliviated
Old book of male chauvinist, long passed insanity.
Nicolas Stocker Zuñiga
Author Notes: Just dedicated to the feminist movement, to my sister Camila