Dusty eyelids remain affixed in their closed positions,
Never opening and never seeing, Striped red and white in warning signs,
Screaming for a record time salvation.
With her limbs akimbo, And her back cocked straight as the barrel of a gun,
She gasped for air,
Steel lips gaping wide and slamming shut again as elevator doors do.
Nostrils flared ever so quickly and jaw bone clenched,
Protruding her corner cheek muscles,
Opposable thumbs bent backwards to breaking point.
An innuendo of blocked primal rage,
Bellowing reverberation throughout her fists,
Busted knuckle egos, Broken in their total.
Deity removed, Substituted by this,
Vagabond crescendoing rank of mortality,
At the seconds before death.
Is this what she’s come to,
Trance Emmanuel’s, Mass Messiahs, Tattooed hands.
She calls me hers.
And I sing praise.
Description of Who She Is.
(Puns for the win)
Written over a year ago.