Shall she present herself to the public in dirty dreads?
They will look down upon her, turning her pale face a scornful red.
If one shall frequent the world, one shall indulge in society's game.
Do not love the earth or the rain: do not live freely; do not combat shame.
She bores deeply to believe
All are common because all breathe.
There is no justifiable deliverance.
Oh! But there is
The deliverance, the gift, the ability to stand free of ignorance
To the gift of befuddlement.
Just one question, Love...What were your intentions
To regard ones so lowly
Only to allow praise in a latter dimension?
She can not conclude a sense of sublimation,
Only a sick letter of meaningless depression.
The riddle of life has no answer: If you created them, who created you?