Pictures On Glass

My eyes twinkle 

when I stare at the glittering glass 

of magical blue hues. 

The palm of my hand sweats 

as my thumb twirls 

in a graceful motion

I never thought it could crave.

.

Filled with sentiment, 

intertwining like a timber’s root 

that crumbles the plumbing structure 

underneath my grounding,

for I can no longer bathe

in my own pool of desire.

.

Is it wrong to say that I genuinely 

enjoy my inner goddess? 

But is it adequate to explore 

and master my identity 

in order to adore my naked body?

.

I’ve been given 

this petite surrogate 

from the cosmos 

for my flowering immense soul, 

breathing in a physical world 

where visuals are 

far more superior, 

so supreme…

.

Is it attainable to 

embrace one’s self 

internally and externally 

in a chaos with 

much more echo chambers 

than we ever imagined?