Is there a shred of decency
behind the marble shroud
that cloaks your comely form?
Within your crystalline breast,
the near warmth of virgin
idealism must beat its adagio
of distant impulse, its forgotten
whisper of modest perfection.
Somewhere deep within
created form a message
must escape your silent lips,
a signal subverting masculine
logic of your portrayal.
If goddess you be, confound
this metamorphic hardening,
licentiousness unleashed.
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