Primordial Venus

Like an Impressionist Masterpiece,
A Hazy Silhouette of Quiet Pastel
Suffused With the Burning Glow of Dawn,
Eluding True Manifestation:
A Martyr of Mysterious Reserve,
An Ambrosial Mélange of Rose Water
And Sweetened Milk,
Coated with Gold Dust and Honeyed Arsenic, She's Seduced by the Complexity of Existence,
Enchanted by the Relief of an Eternal Sleep: Blindly following whatever Mystic Impulses Inspire Movement,
She Exists in a state of Perpetual Hypnagogia,
Unaware, how the Unrepentant Perversion of her Twisting Tresses,
And Melodic Whispers of Unyielding Devotion, Serve as a Panacea to all His internal Suffering: Compromising her own Sanity for a Hollowed Subsistence,
She's The Mad Woman: Daughter of Primordial Venus,
Bedded by her own Silent Mischief.