balsamaceous, her robes cannot lie.

they heal by what they conceal, not by

touch salacious, nor, by commotion.

“philothea, she’ll go be a nun,”

said a man recruiting devotion.

with a love indivisible by

heroes, shapiro’s the advocate

she defends, if you can picture it.

nero’s mirós line the floor like mats,

but, philo walks not along such paths;

“embrace us”, the painted women cry;

but, my philo won’t give the glad eye—

she’s a mary. she’s got the lotion.

legacy seemed once the good potion,

now, its antidote spills forth oceans,

and, her grace is in oversupply.

aflutter, a dove tweets old world chat,

and, it trends—if you can follow that.

mirrors of zeroes reflect the math—

her converts read her more than ape plath.