Put her in a manmade box.
Call her pretty,
free of the filth that cloaks the unthinking.
Once her faith follows your fib,
wound a porthole into her wooden chest.
Let stagnation ooze into her eyeball
burn revelations into her skull.
Help her brain boil in the molasses of rotten hopes
of forever heavenly white clouds.
Always whisper of salvation, of the truth
that lies eternal,
or until a sheep cares not to be mouthless.
First published at my Writing Site.