She reads through her punctured words
and her ruptured tales and she feels as if
she is bound to weave something else
and something more.
She browses through her photographed scenes
and her reflected deeds and she feels as
if she bound to yield something else
and something more.
Her senses are whirling in great speed
like gaseous atoms inside a quadrilateral grid.
Her mind is in constant change.
Her tenses are whirring in a distinct beat
like fallacious notes along a tremendous feat.
Her soul is in constant change.
Only one thing is apparent.
Only one and nothing else.
She is loathsome no more.
