"Comfort is a Lightning Storm at Bedtime"
The lids of my eyes,
Still,
Sideways,
Staring,
As those in a portrait of the beautiful woman.
Her lips pursed with the pride of her suave elegance.
Her face rattled by the strike engendered by the angels in Heaven,
Bowling with spheres of thunder.
Her neck is centered by the precise angles of her delicate clavicles.
Those eyes,
They capture the stories of her land's history.
Her heart is secured by the meandering vines of her gown.
It is her waist that sways in the periodical elucidation of her structure that oozes Victorian
perfumes.
The emphasis of the storm is outlined in the elliptical sky.
Phantasmagoric images congregate into a tableau of Hates apparitions.
I rest.
Comforted,
By the lightening storm that is reflected in her eyes at bedtime.
By the lightening storm that is reflected in her eyes at bedtime.
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