Her face is of the majesty born in the wind, her temperature is a paradox and I am caught amidst it.
She is a very cold and vague individual. Her egotism says otherwise, for her beauty is priceless, but her words are in poverty.
Procuring the oblivious vision from my eyes, there is something about her, a blatant stick in a pile of wood. Burning within me so insufficiently clean, like a story of two cities, she seeps perfunctorily into my heart.
At what cost I say, shall she be the martyr of my dismay. At what cost I say, shall I feel the solace from my mirror image just flying away. At what cost I say, I see myself lost in thought, for my hands do not extend as far, and I feel as if I will not make it; I will not survive.
She attracts the many out of pure greed, a hierarchal queen of standards, her quintessence is in everything, and everything is entitled to her quintessence.
The many work for her, but for what cost I say? Infatuated yet exhausted we all die in the same place anyway.