There is tentacular awareness in those eyes
It is not distorted, perverted by the light,
It is subtle, sophisticated.
Her eyes are not clouded by the
dull, opaque filling of gluttonous mortal's fancies,
as other's are,
They are striking, sharp.
And as words flow like salient tentacles from her cold lips,
They sting, whip-like invincibility,
as they smack succulently on the shadow of the doorframe,
rise toward the infinite sky,
And engulf the needles of the evergreen
in a layer of thick, slimy residue
as it climbs,
higher and higher,
toward not deification
but that
which is
omniscience.