Thinking the world went amok, berserk, mad, and a mockery.

*In both her wavy and dreamy clothes,* *Truth is, even when she walks you would think her dancing,* *Typical of the Cobra dance of sacrad jugglers,* *The end of it sticks in a wavy but invisible rhyme,* *Of the dreary sand to the azure of the desert's lights,* *Both insensitive to human suffering to human woes,* *Like the long matrixes of the swells of the seas lengths,* *She bows not but grows with the indifference of fearful sights,* *With a polished eye's as made of charming diamonds,* *In her strange but symbolic posture of alien nature,* *where the inviolate heavenly creature mingle with ancient angels,* *The road to mystical absolution is fraught with mangled sphinxes,* *When all is pure, where all is gold, bright as steel, high as the mighty,* *The shine might last for eternity, and the road looks heavenwards,* *But the bold haughtiness, the cold majesty, and the sheer confidence,* *Turns me a convert, meek and seeking, looking at the awesomeness,* *Yet thinking the world went amok, berserk, mad, and a mockery.* Sincerely @izge.