She

I love her more and more,
Not for simplicity but complexity.
She has layers of satin and linen,
Wrinkled sins and creased virtues,
Contoured silhouette she crayons in shades,
She is a river in joy,
She is a drought in sorrows,
(In) Compliant to match the mad times.
Appeals to un(fair) minds.
Sin(ful) to unfancy ;Sin(less) to fancy.
Molten Sun to wage wars,
Placid Sea to make peace,
She is the womb with weeds and seeds,
Of untold (mis)deeds.
She is the tomb  of thistles and petals.
Her echo flounders the half wit.
No more a display crystal on the mantel piece.
She is the shadow of herself.
I love her layers of fury  and furry feathers.
Not for clarity but intricacy.

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