From seeds sown from the skies,
Into a flower bed, unmade,
From which she would arise.
And when she did--
She dared us to consume,
With outstretched claws, dilated eyes,
Concealed by her violet charms,
That blooms on the same vine,
Which proffers us with open arms,
Homemade bittersweet wine.
Over time, her thread-like spine curled,
From the weight of her perfection,
And spewed upon our blemished world,
Her super-natural injection:
A syringe, dosed with tears of gold,
To cure your plight of growing old.
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