Pre-menstrual disdain

Deep, underneath the surface
there was a monster
that cried for its lotus;
all the while, wondering,
would its language suffice
to invoke the Sun?

To spend its time fruitfully
it loved to create ambiences
that dovetailed metrically;
knitted in fluid webs
of candid perfection
that spoke no lies?

Memory kept fading
just to flaunt its indispensability
to all those who were cursed to forget;
the accursed lost access everyday
to who they were
and what they meant.

The eye will strut the globe
in claret robes of clear
and untainted contentment;
that is
so the way
to be.