Who am I to exclaim?
But that do I in anima.

Isn’t she more than art?
Is she not the spark of the
heart in presence of the
silence?

And with every
flutter resonates in visions
her beatific beauty.

But she is
more than art! She is the
confusions of man’s motives.
And it can’t be physical. For
she has never touched of him.
And in no more than a dream
wast his infatuation revealed.

And to her,
isn’t her life a masterpiece?
Isn’t it!

But the reflection of the mirror
becomes hateful to her. And, as
if in the penumbra of her thoughts,
I utter: she is more that art: She
is the embodiment of the Grecian
gods, the bewilderment of Zeus,
the lust of Christ, the rebirth of
the crucifix.

But these art but words heard of
the afflicted soul. These art but
ploys projected from depth the lust.

She is more than art. But all she sees
is needled filled veins; a closet myriad
filled with ex-lovers; a visceral envisage of
self-hate; and a body that is codified in
scarifications.

But to me
She is more than just art:

She is the enrapturous captivation
Of motion; thee, unutterable manifestation
Of the incomplete and yet perfected
Masterpiece… not my art!!!

But she is more that art.

She is god’s creation:

Love of the angelic hymns,
Reason of the next apocalypse,
Indignation fallen within the rain,
The recaptured essence of Eden,
The transcendent wisdoms of Enoch,
The cause of the burning bush,
The Extinguishment of Levitic laws,
The Deuterocanicles rapt’d in the eyes of spirit,
The last death of the Buddha…

SHE IS MORE!!!

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