Paranormal Woman # 3

She sets out.
Like Wordsworth.
On foot.

A nightmare of rainstorms.

Not yet officially her highness.

Her boot laces.
Her camisoles.
Frothing abnormally.

(As due the polis.)

She bites down.
Her panopticons' absurd opus
of nerve-ends unmeted at dusk.

(Still frothing.)

Her millionth pixelated ward of force.
Interfaced upon hilltop & dale.
She objectifies tithes beyond need.
For incident.
Or consequence.

Frenzied to inquire--

If gold is purpose without form...

If language is golden as it's writ...

Am I not yet her higness
wary of exordium?