Mystique

Blasée, the feminine
rolls her hidden eye,

as he marvels at the width
and breadth of the mystery.

He is her fruit,
fallen into life,

and she is the shine
of the onyx.

He is doomed to measure
and weigh the residue of meaning,

while she propagates futures and mirages
materialized in wombs.

Her sight is fixed
on horizons yet to appear,

She is the answer
elusively ahead of his questions.

And she is the root
that grows the trees.

She is the gravity
that births the stars.