She had nothing but time on her hands
and flowers on her palms,
blossoming psalms that spoke of forever.
She took the sun in her mouth,
placing rays on her tongue
filtering beams to her lungs
until her words glowed with existence.
She speaks an illuminated language
coloured with blood and years
She wrapped her hands in syllables
and placed them on her womb,
crescent shape radiating words of the sun.
Years habituating deceased cultures
forced her to speak a language extinct,
some strange garble of projected stigma.
Now, bearing an unlikely future
heir to nothing yet all the air
she would be taught from the inside out,
enlightened.
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