Parlous and horrendous, her stomp.

Ill-lit gets thoroughfare, she flows.

Virulent her torso, slayed numerous.

Luscious enough, thaws icebergs.

Yet she disregarded the potential.

Unwitting wholly, stashed in shell.

Hankered forever, but nowt.

Overlooked; shabby, scabrous, knocked by none.

Cicuta Maculata, her name thus,

They steer clear of that micro missile. 

Those footsteps, enough to make Dracula vamoose. Those blazing eyes with each contact narrating a different story, profound and prickling. Stack of tales, unread and beautiful is what her brain contains. A lot to say but she is in self fight, having a war against words and mostly she wins and her silent words dominate the universe. A few ask as if curiosity has kidnapped them and they are at gunpoint. Once known, she becomes fragile as if she is older than Megalithic Temples of Malta. Her figure aches utterly and she bawls. They scourge her and her weakness becomes their utmost power. Thus, silent her portrait is what brings her joie de vivre and ataraxy.