She rises out of the ocean
with her iron dogma;

like the screech of an alarm
clock breaking as an artificial

dawn into the dark room, that
in this light, seems like it's

made from the epicenter of
what's right and wrong, though

truly, it's just the parameters
of yet another woman's diameters,

antechambers somewhere seem
to remember the iron skin that

sits atop her bones, like the flash
of cloud cover she was once

so fascinated with; the sight of her
overtly magnified in those elated

lungs of yours, breathing the metallic
of her in, her carbon flavored footfalls,

crashing into that dream-thick room,
hoping that you will not notice her,

that this dark room, those sounds might
deter you from the what you've found.