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.