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.