She sat on a carriage where her high frequency presence forced her hand to paint on her armour in instructed patterns then , intensity heightened, reinforce it over and over until she was sure nobody would find her
Then it didn't matter that time is boundless because we imagine we could shackle it and she has to look Marilyn-esque when the all dictating short hand strikes 6
Fantasy is an aperitif from the battle ground and there are wars more subtle than the diabolical assertions of masculinity that spark more than gunpowder screaming in the pit of a phallic barrel and more mesmerising than its psychedelic spectrum
Smiling at other people's kids and dogs was all too fruitless but she could afford the mild engagement of the small muscles that cornered her mouth and who could lose, paying grace to somebody's child
The reciprocated acceptance is a taste of the comfort she lives for and she made that stolen moment home. She sensed the song of that puppy's heart playing through her stroking fingers and sang uncalculated words through the lips of a baby girl
A universal blurb and a flavouring sprinkle of mummy became the melody she eased into with the clunk of railway drowned under it's luxury bed. She snuggled for a gracious millennia until the train stopped at her nightspot, so she hastily scrambled the stories of the little girl and folded them under the camoflage on her cheeks
The carriage doors opened setting her free on the stage to metropolis where she had people to be
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