Being a girl
It was a monticule
She juxtaposed herself to
A call from the shofar
Would rattle the windows of her sensorium
Her dreams were clandestine
From the one she always wanted to masscult
She treasured the contrivance
To fabricate her hallucinations
Into palpability
Owing to the unfortunate concatenations
She never opted
Cessation, vamoose or decamping
At no time she occulted her head trip
She lived each day
To anticipate amelioration
Being so close to her fantasy
She did not clandestine
Being a woman
She now metamorphisised
From a monticule to a bluff
