She lacks symmetry. In the curve of the looking glass She’s obtuse, Deliberate in naivety. Her melody chants emptily Constricting her harmony to base notes: Rooted and diatonic Yet obliquely tuned, off key. She reflects with the clarity That only the distorted can: Off-balance and perfectly malformed. In the eye of creation She’s a falsified sequence Sat between design and serendipity. A constellation unmapped For her rising suns are only set And her moons are drowned In the tides they made. There’s no happenstance here, To her, existence is a gift. The opportunity to remould The kinetic sand in which she swims So it may smooth the surface To form a meretricious shine.